


The Silver Fragment

by MissBeanSprout



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Castiel and Dean Winchester Being Idiots, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Grouchy Castiel, Immortal Castiel (Supernatural), Immortal Dean Winchester, Kinda Hunter Dean Winchester, Lothario Dean Winchester, M/M, Past Dean Winchester/Other(s), Professor Castiel (Supernatural), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-04-07 04:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19077424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissBeanSprout/pseuds/MissBeanSprout
Summary: Castiel Milton and Dean Winchester are the only immortals left in the world.Of course they'd go and fall in love with each other.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, there!
> 
> This is my first-ever Destiel fic so please go easy on me.
> 
> Also, kudos and comments are appreciated. :>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give my thanks to my beta, [Rhenna Fuego](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhennaFuego), a close, personal friend of mine. She's awesome.

Castiel Milton had always known he was different.

He had known the moment he was old enough to read or write.

It wasn’t so much as he was born different—he just simply refused to be like everyone else.

Everyone else was tedious. They couldn’t quite tickle his hypothetical funny bone, nor interest him enough to get a second glance. They were messy, hopeless, and annoying. Mediocre. Frankly, they weren’t worth his time. Castiel was exasperated with the expectations of him.

In a world where people had roles to fill and responsibilities to shoulder, he was the rough in a diamond mine.

In the longevity of Castiel’s existence, he had never loved anyone, nor earned anyone’s love.

It was the ultimate deviance from the society which upholds a strict dichotomy; black or white, sleep or wake, Heaven or Hell, give love or take love.

“There is a balance within the world, Castiel,” his mother had told him once, “Good and evil, light and dark, happiness and melancholy; all these things must be on par, or else chaos will threaten our entire existence.”

Castiel had furrowed his eyebrows. “But I don’t want to give my soul away. Or take someone else’s soul,” he had wrinkled his tiny nose in disgust. But his mother only smiled fondly at him.

“Only time will tell, sweetheart.”

And time had told him as much.

A lot of people give him hell for it, for never experiencing heaven’s paramount gift, making him the only person to walk the earth whose soul was untouched—taintless and pristine. Still brand new and ready for the taking.

If only Castiel had that in his agenda. To him, love was a sickness, a wolf in sheep’s clothing that had everyone wrapped in its ugly finger, desperate for love and to be loved. Everyone’s goal was to find their one true mate in soul, and achieve Soulshift: the giving of one’s soul wholly to their lover, and the reciprocation of the other, resulting in an exchange that will allow those two people to assume a permanently normal life span and live out their days with their better half.

That was what’s expected of him.

And every other person in the world.

Gross. No, his plan was to remain uncorrupted. _Ha, love_ , Castiel sneered, _the poor fools don’t even know they’re done for._

What kind of gift was love if it only leads to your demise? Good thing he wasn’t planning on giving up to love any time soon—or ever.

Doesn’t matter that no one was gonna love him, what with his dissident opinions and acerbic personality. He could manage.

Mortality be damned. Castiel was going to live forever.

And then.

_Thank the heavens for Dean Winchester._

• • •

Dean Winchester was an entirely different story.

At first, it wouldn’t seem as though he’s the perfect fit for the recalcitrant Castiel. But he was also as recalcitrant as they came.

Dean always knew love was a beautiful thing even as a little child. His first encounter with it was at about six years old.

He had relinquished a part of his soul to Cassie Robinson—the pretty girl with bushy hair and caramel skin. It had been recess, and Dean had spotted Cassie alone by the swing, trying to push herself up with her feet; legs not quite long enough to give the swing anything more than a sideways jiggle.

Cassie had her lips pouted, and she had looked like she was about to cry. But before she could, Dean had strode up to her and placed his small hands on each of the suspension ropes on either side of the young girl. The frowning Cassie threw a look of confusion, possibly with a side of suspicion, over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she had asked. The taller boy had given her a gummy smile. “What does it look like?”

With that, Dean held the ropes firmly in his grasp and began to tug using all the strength his tiny body could muster, and then let go. It had been enough to get the swing going, enough to make Cassie feel the wind blow against her stomach, and enough to get her to gasp and squeal in delight.

Dean had given the swing a few more shoves after that, to regale the brunette with a longer time on the swing and higher altitude to boot. Cassie had howled in exuberance, and every peal of laughter gave the small boy’s heart a persistent tug.

When the fuzzy-haired girl had exhausted the swing and climbed off, she ran straight into Dean’s slight arms, chattering “thank you” and “that’s the best fun I ever had” and “it felt like flying” rapidly.

Dean had been stuck in place, arms by his sides, unable to move. Cassie must had noticed his stiffness and let go of the boy’s body to look at him. When she looked at him, his eyebrows were raised but eyes twinkling. She beamed at him. “Thanks, Dean.”

Her brown eyes that looked as sweet as chocolate must had shaken the boy back to reality, because Dean had planted a quick kiss to her left cheek before he even knew he did it.

The effect was instantaneous. Suddenly, the tiny boy had frozen and goosebumps appeared all over his body. The stirring inside him couldn’t be pinpointed to exactly one location, but rather it could be felt all over all at once. A shock of electricity went up from his hands to his forearms, kind of like how it would feel if you brushed arms with another person, but a little more intensified.

The sensation had Dean shuddering, but the experience was not entirely unpleasant, because when he looked up at Cassie, she was glowing and a pleased smile rested on her ingénue features. Dean hadn’t known it then, but Cassie’s reaction made it all the more worth it.

With the kiss, he had unwittingly given her a piece of his soul.

The next time Dean gave another piece of his soul, it was at about 10 years old and he had been in 5th grade, the dark-haired Lisa Braeden with the warm brown eyes sitting behind him.

Dean had been fussing around his rucksack, fruitlessly looking for a pencil so he could start the math activity centered on fractions. He must had left it in his room in a rush to leave the house and avoid overhearing more of his parents’ arguments.

It was their third fight of that week. It was becoming unbearable. Dean could only take his younger brother Sammy’s clammy hand and assure his worried frown that everything was gonna be okay before they shot out the door faster than you could say custody rights.

Lisa must had taken notice to her agitated friend, who was already murmuring alarming litanies for a 5th grader. She reached out to put a hand on his tensed shoulder.

“Dean?” she had asked softly. It had been only a single word, _his name_ , but it held more meaning than anything else she could have said. Dean’s shoulders became rigid at her touch, but immediately slumped after a few seconds. He dared a glance at her direction.

“I forgot my pencil,” he had muttered, “I was in a hurry.” His eyes couldn’t quite meet hers and Lisa understood. She gave his shoulder a light squeeze, reassuring and commiserating. Dean relaxed with a sigh. Before he knew it, Lisa had taken her own pencil, still relatively new and lengthy, and broke it in half against her knee.

“What are you doing?” had gasped Dean. The brunette had only grinned. “What do you think?”

Lisa had stood and beelined to the sharpener attached to the classroom’s wall and began grinding the lower half of the pencil in the small orifice. When she had finished, she returned to her desk and gave the round-eyed boy the diminutive but newly-sharpened Faber, closing it around his fingers.

“There you go,” she had said, hands still on Dean’s. His eyes slowly turned from surprise to one of elated, and Lisa wasn’t given a second’s notice before a shot of exhilaration, which could only be described as sheer pleasure, ran up her spine and settled in her chest. She gasped at the tingle making its home at her heart. It was easily the most indulgent moment of her juvenile life, and she sighed contentedly with a pleased smile at her lips.

By accepting the pencil, Dean had unknowingly given another piece of his soul.

Dean felt a little lightheaded and queasy from the effort of giving away a part of himself, adjusting to the shift in his core. But it didn’t matter; Lisa’s grateful, wistful smile was enough compensation.

The third time Dean had apportioned his soul, he was much older.

Post-pubescent Dean at 16 years old had time to stew in his juices and miss the ache and thrill of falling in love. He hadn’t felt the frisson of it for six years, so it took him entirely by surprise when he inadvertently gave the tertiary bit of his soul to Aaron Bass behind the bleachers with a little more groping than usual.

They were locked in an embrace that day, all lips and tongues and hands on each other. Dean was a sophomore then and Aaron a junior. They officially met at Lawrence High School’s first football game of the season, but they knew each other’s names before that; Dean Winchester being one of the most gorgeous specimens Kansas had the pride of breeding, and Aaron Bass being an all-around lanky geek who seemed to know everything from bizarre trivia to world history to calculus. Dean had been inexplicably drawn to the boy the moment he first laid eyes on him across the mess hall back in freshman year.

So it had been just Dean’s luck when he found the seat next to him occupied by the reserved but sarcastic-once-you-get-to-know-him teenager.

A few surreptitious glances here and there, and a lot of courage-garnering before he could introduce himself to the older boy, they finally fell into an easy conversation. One with more laughter and stomach-clutching than normal in an exchange with someone you just met; more shoulder-grabbing and gazing longer than average.

So there they had been, an hour after the final game of the season when people had filed out and were long gone. They had stayed behind, a pull of a hand on a hand, their feet led them to the back of the stands, and lips connecting the moment they were out of anyone’s sight.

Aaron’s fingers had found their way to the nape of the smaller boy’s neck, and his other hand at Dean’s hip where his untucked shirt had ridden up so that he was gliding his thumb on the boy’s skin. Dean shivered at the touch and the sensation traveled straight to where his bathing suit goes.

The lanky boy must had registered the shiver because Dean could feel a smirk in the kiss as he explored the short expanse of Aaron’s hair. The older boy bit back a moan when Dean’s hot breath moved down to his neck, planting wet kisses all over.

“Don’t,” breathed Dean against his Adam’s apple, “I want to hear you.” The older boy must had been feeling extra obedient that day, because as soon as the words left the younger boy’s mouth, it was as though a muffler was removed and Aaron was making beautiful noises invoked by Dean.

“Dean,” he whimpered. Another shot to Dean’s groin. He hooked his fingers through the taller boy’s belt loops and pulled him flush against his torso. Then, he put both his palms on Aaron’s buttocks and gave a good squeeze.

Aaron yelped and Dean chuckled. The younger boy had ceased and lifted his head to press their foreheads together. He felt extremely pleased to see the boy’s pink-tinged cheeks and swollen lips, both breathing heavily.

“Ain’t that a fine rear, right there,” teased Dean, both hands slithering in each of Aaron’s back pockets. He had felt his cheeks heat up in response, and the taller boy mirrored him, fingers leaving their former position to also cup Dean’s ass cheeks via trouser pockets. Aaron felt something crumple against his right hand.

He raised an eyebrow questioningly, and Dean gave him a boyish grin. “Pull it out.”

Aaron had done what he was told, and his eyes widened when he saw what the younger boy had in his pocket. Two tickets to the Big Six Conference at the Memorial Stadium.

“ _How_ in the hell did you get these!” he exclaimed, hands coming to Dean’s chest, tickets still in grasp. He could only pull Aaron closer to him by his suspenders, a shy smile on his lips. It had cost him two weeks' worth of pay, but the older boy didn’t need to know that.

“I know how badly you wanted to go. Well, let’s go,” he said, eyes twinkling in hope. Aaron had melted in reply. Lips tugged in a coy smile but eyes utterly and completely impassioned. It was inarguably one of the best sights he had set his eyes on.

And Dean was not prepared for it in the slightest.

Aaron’s hands where they had rested on Dean’s chest suddenly felt like they were humming against Dean’s sternum. Soft vibrations started him, and something he had never felt before crawled up his spine and spread across his chest, warm and confounding. His heart had been pulsing in unadulterated pleasure that navigated all throughout his core to the tips of his extremities. His toes had curled in delight.

There had also been a quivering, nagging sensation that couldn’t be approximated where exactly; he could just feel it. It was familiar, yet entirely different at the same time. It complemented the euphoric bustle, like butter to bread or day to night.

Dean hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes until he opened them. He wore an intoxicated smile, already thinking of ways to bare his gratitude to the taller boy.

But when he looked at Aaron, he was glowing in bliss, too.

Aaron had fallen in love with Dean. And Dean had fallen in love with him in return.

The third time Dean rendered a piece of his soul was indelible in his memory, because someone had given a piece of their soul to him in echo.

It had been absolutely rhapsodical.

And that was the moment it had began.

_The incipience._

A path that would bleed into decades.

_His infernal addiction._


	2. Chapter 1: University of Kansas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by [Rhenna Fuego](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhennaFuego).

_—earthquake of a 5.2 magnitude has left residents shaken. Though no major damages befell the city, specialists are fearful of—_

_—look at this photograph—_

_—and I promise that you’ll never find another like me-e-e—_

_—in other news, University of Kansas Chancellor Chuck Shurley has spoken about the recently stolen Lawrence artifact, the one and only Silver Fragment. The Silver Fragment has been an age-old antiquity for the people of Lawrence, Kansas, as history tells us of Robert “Bobby” Singer—the most prominent figure in the city, and the old owner of the Silver Fragment._

The LPD has assured me that they are doing everything in their power to bring the perpetrator to justice, and to bring Bobby Singer’s soul piece back home at KU. People of Lawrence, there is no need to worry.

_The artifact in question has been stolen two days ago by an unknown thief inside the KU campus. Security footage has been tampered with, and there are no suspects as of yet—_

Dean shut the radio off, vexed and maybe just a little bit alarmed. _Yeah, yeah, I get it,_ he thought. He had been avoiding that particular news story ever since it popped up on the TV screen of the bar where he had been hustling pool just two nights ago.

It had given him an ominous feeling that he couldn’t shake, and it wasn’t helping that it kept popping up around him; first in that bar, second in the motel room he stayed at, third in the morning paper, fourth when a victim in the murder he was investigating asked him if he had heard of it, fifth when the cashier at the gas station convenience store told him to take care if he was headed to Kansas—and now in the intuitive radio inside his Impala.

He had been in a different state by then, and still, it was as if everything around him was pointing to the direction of Lawrence—of course it could be that there was just a lot of controversy surrounding the theft that rumors reached across borders, there was that—but he swore that he did his best to avoid it. To eschew the case from his mind. But a force bigger and stronger than himself must have been at work, because now he was driving Baby towards his hometown, where he hadn’t visited ever since he first left.

Yeah, something was definitely going on.

• • •

He arrived at the KU campus that afternoon, reading up on the police report on the Silver Fragment theft inside his car when a loud knock against the window startled him. He looked to his left and saw a middle-aged man of short stature with light brown hair wearing a brown tweed suit and a scowl.

Dean lowered his window. “Can I help you?”

The man grimaced. “You’re in my parking spot, mister,” he pointed out, gesturing to the small signage bearing the name _Gabriel Shurley, Ph.D._ over the _Department of History_ at the front of the car, barely noticeable, but there nonetheless.

“Oh,” Dean said with a cheeky grin, “I’m sorry, man—doctor, I didn’t see your name there. Let me get outta your way.” With that, he turned the engine on, put the car in reverse, and transferred to a slot where he made sure twice that no one’s name laid claim to it. When he got out of his car, the doctor had parked his Subaru Outback in its rightful place.

He walked towards the doctor, intending to apologize again and maybe glean some information about the reason he was here.

The doctor shut the car door when he got out and locked it with a press of a button. He saw Dean ambling towards him as he pocketed his key.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Dean Smith, FBI.” Dean showed his counterfeit badge his friend and cohort Charlie made him to the doctor, getting a raised brow in reply. “It’s fine, but what’s a fed doing here in our fine institution?”

Dean returned the badge in his black suit jacket, and before he could reply, the doctor continued, “If this is about the soul piece, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. That thing is long gone.”

It was Dean’s turn to cock an eyebrow. “What makes you say that, Dr. Shurley?”

The doctor shook his head at the appellation. “Please, call me Gabriel. Dr. Shurley makes me feel like my dad,” he muttered.

Dean cleared his throat. “Right, of course, Gabriel. Your father is Chancellor Shurley?”

At that, Gabriel scrunched up his nose. “Yeah, no, that’s not gonna work out either. You can call _him_ Dr. Shurley.”

“Okay,” Dean responded tepidly. “Maybe you can help me Gabriel. Point me to where I can find your father. And while you’re at it, you can tell me why you think the Silver Fragment is ‘long gone.’”

“You’re in luck. He’s in his office right now,” Gabriel said, and they started walking towards the administrative building. "And I don't know, I just feel it.”

“Ever since he found out about the theft, he’s been a permanent fixture in his office; hasn’t attended a single meeting or seminar that involves leaving the university. The loss of that artifact has him rattled,” Gabriel explained, “Why he's rattled, you have to ask him yourself.”

“Figures he’d be there for a relic but not his children,” he added, murmuring it more to himself than anything, bitterness crossing his features. But he straightened almost immediately when he remembered that he was accompanying a relative stranger.

They reached the stairs to the building and began walking up. “I read that the footage was tampered with. Who has access to those and where can I find them?” Dean asked, purposely avoiding the family drama. He didn’t do family drama, nor any kind of drama for that matter.

“Well, those guys you can find on the third floor. But you’re going to the fifth floor if you wanna see my father first. He can help you with anything you need with the investigation,” replied Gabriel as they went through the glass doors of the edifice and traipsed across the hall past the lobby and front desk. The short man gave a wink to the attendant’s direction, making her giggle.

As they made their way to the elevator, Dean spoke, “Good. Thanks again, Gabriel.” The elevator doors opened, and the taller man stepped inside, but the shorter man didn’t move.

Dean was confused. “Aren’t you coming?” Gabriel shook his head with a grin. “Nah, I have a lecture to get to. Tell my dad I said hi. Would do him some good to remind him he has children,” he snorted, then gave Dean a lopsided smile. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He nodded. “I’ll do my best.” And the elevator door closed.

When Dean arrived at the fifth story, he was greeted by a quiet floor. He exited the elevator, and walked to the end of the hall, where a counter was situated and a blonde woman behind it. Probably the secretary.

She started when Dean rapped on the wood twice, flustered and her black-rimmed glasses askew. Dean peaked behind the counter and saw that she had been typing away before being spurred into reality.

The woman composed herself and with practiced ease, stated, “The chancellor isn’t seeing anyone—”

But he had his badge out before she could finish. “FBI Agent Smith. Please don’t finish that sentence.” Dean flashed his charming grin.

She blinked. “Right. Of course. Let me just. . .” She worked in her seat, checking her desk before closing her laptop and standing up, still seeming out of it. She led Dean to the door to the left, where a golden plaque rested on the middle, inscribed with _Charles “Chuck” Shurley, Ed.D., Ph.D., University Chancellor._

She knocked thrice before opening the door, and she and Dean crossed the threshold.

Dean marveled at the gargantuan office with grey walls accented with gold throughout. It made the space look exquisite, which could only indicate accolade, seniority, and preeminence. The left side of the room was covered with a bookshelf that encompassed the entire west wall.

There was a large set of couches in the middle with a glass table, also highlighted with grey and gold, and a desk in the north, complete with a swivel chair facing the wall opposite, where a humongous painting of a family hung. The portrait composed of five figures.

An eldest man with thick black hair and greying strands, sitting on a wooden chair in the middle, looked authoritative and cogent, but had an air of wisdom and weariness in him in his black, immaculate suit. A woman with ethereal blonde hair by the floor in a bright red evening gown, legs bent and an arm on the eldest man’s lap, with a soft smile and crow’s feet by her eyes. A young man with light brown hair standing by the eldest man’s right, leaning his elbow on the chair in a deep blue suit, his neutral smile only belied by the mischievous glint in his eyes. Another young man with blonde hair and a serious expression, accentuated by his white, crisp suit, standing beside the brown-haired man. And lastly, a young woman with dark hair on the eldest man’s left, wearing a flowing forest green gown and a similar expression to the man in white, the difference being her gaze not looking like she wanted you to burn where you stood.

Dean was mesmerized by the portrait, and was only snapped out of his trance when the woman beside him spoke, “Dr. Shurley—”

“Becky, I told you I’m not seeing anyone until further notice.” The decrepit voice came from behind the desk, seated on the chair.

“Yes, Dr. Shurley, but the FBI—”

“The FBI?”

“Yes, Agent Smith is here to see you.”

A pause.

“Alright. Thank you, Becky.”

The woman, Becky, nodded though the chancellor couldn’t see her, and she turned and went out of the office.

Dean was left standing in the middle of the room, the old man still turned away.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” the voice uttered, quiet, raspy, and somewhat unsure. Dean narrowed his eyes at the cryptic statement. “What do you mean?”

The chair finally turned a hundred and eighty degrees, revealing a greying man in a deep blue suit that looked like it cost Dean’s car, and a black waistcoat that complemented it nicely. The crinkles in his face were the prominent differences between him and the eldest man in the portrait, but his blue, masterful eyes were unmistakable.

He gave a slight smile, hands linked on the table. “What I mean is that I was unsure whether the Silver Fragment theft merits the FBI’s attention.”

“Oh,” Dean said, ever so eloquently, “Well, yes, this seemed like our kind of case, alright, Dr. Shurley.” Dean started his way to his desk, glancing at his right where a window overseeing the campus grounds was ensconced, frame gilded.

When he reached the chancellor, he flashed him his badge, but he didn’t give it a look. He was focused on the young man’s face—which of course, only looked young, because Dean sure as hell wasn’t young—ostensibly studying his appearance.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Agent Dean Smith, sir. I would like to ask some questions regarding the theft.”

At that, Dr. Shurley tilted his head at Dean, seemingly searching for something on his features. It made the younger-looking man wonder if there was leftover ketchup on his face after eating that top-notch bacon cheeseburger at the diner he stopped by. But Gabriel had said nothing. Maybe it was just an old man’s quirk, a way of learning new people.

“Also, your son says hello,” Dean supplied, hoping to ease the atmosphere. That seemed to catch the doctor’s attention.

“Which one?” He nodded to the painting.

“The doctor—Gabriel,” he added, in case more than one of his children had Ph.D.’s. True enough, Dr. Shurley chuckled. “All of my progeny are doctors, Agent Smith.”

“Right,” Dean nods awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed. The chancellor’s behavior was really putting a damper on his usual devilishly smooth charm.

As though sensing Dean’s discomfort, Dr. Shurley smiled warmly. “Gabriel has always been the most thoughtful of the three.” He turned his chair again, gazing once more at the painting, this time his eyes focused on the familiar brown-haired man with what couldn’t be misconstrued as sheer pride.

And then just before Dean could say anything else, Dr. Shurley stood from his chair and buttoned his suit jacket, smoothing his deep red tie. He walked beside the desk to Dean, his gait slow due to his age. He looked like he was in his seventies but Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he was an octogenarian.

He offered his hand to the taller man and Dean shook it firmly.

“How may I be of service?”

• • •

Dean and Dr. Shurley were traipsing to Singer Hall, a building perpendicular to the administrative building, and named after the face of Kansas. They had been to the third floor where the surveillance feed was, and Dean had asked the man in charge, one rotund and crotchety Frank Devereaux, if he had seen anything or anyone suspicious the night the artifact was stolen from the Chamber of History. But as the police report had said, no one had noticed anything because one was in the bathroom and the other must have been focused on other feeds.

When the cops had checked the footage the day after, a window time of an hour, 1:00 to 2:00 a.m., had been erased; original copies and back-ups.

That gave Dean an idea who the burglar could be—either extremely smart or extremely wealthy, to have the footage deleted that quickly and cleanly.

So Dean had given the security his card, in case they had something to tell him, and acquired his own copy of the feed of that night. You never know what you might find.

Dr. Shurley nudged Dean out of his thoughts. “Once we get to the Chamber of History, I can give you time to peruse around and make your observations.”

Dean nodded. “And I will have to talk to the people who had access to the room, so the ones who had offices in the building.”

Dr. Shurley hummed. “But only the sanitary staff and security have keys to that room.”

Dean pondered, especially that the door had no signs of forced entry. “Still, being in the same building, they could have heard or seen something. What departments are in here?” asked Dean as they entered the infrastructure, heading to the stairs as there was no elevator in sight.

“Only the History Department and Philosophy Department reside in Singer Hall. The offices are mostly on the third floor and above. The Chamber of History is on the second.”

They began their ascent when Dean remembered the brown-haired doctor’s words.

“I have to ask, Dr. Shurley, does this soul piece have any sentimental value to you?” Dean queried. The chancellor stopped for a second, but continued as though he hadn’t paused.

He still hadn’t replied, so Dean added, “Gabriel mentioned to me that the loss of the artifact had you shaken. Had some special place in your heart?”

The chancellor scowled at Dean’s choice of words. “ _Has_ , agent, not had. It’s still out there and I believe in your abilities to locate it,” he said tersely.

“Of course, doctor. That’s what I meant,” assured Dean. He gestured for the shorter man to resume.

Dr. Shurley sighed. “That soul piece has exceedingly pertinent value for all of the citizens of Kansas. I’m sure you’re well-read on its history?”

Dean had researched it and found bits and pieces, but where better to find an accurate account than from the school itself, and from the chancellor no less?

“I would like to hear your version of the story, Dr. Shurley,” Dean prodded. The doctor’s lips quirked at the corner, but it was gone before Dean could register it.

They had reached the double-doors with the bronze signage on top, scripting _Chamber of History_. Dr. Shurley and Dean remained outside as the chancellor narrated as though in a documentary, “Well, in the late 1800s, soul scarcity had been coined. It was a time of great despair, because people were losing pieces of their soul in a rather rapid pace. No one seemed to realize what spurred the occurrence, but most of them were either dead or dying. Until now, historians are baffled as to where given soul pieces went, because no one had been gaining soul pieces during that time.”

The chancellor looked contemplative as he continued, “It has always been believed that nature had been angry because people were wasting souls, and as a result, wasted away. People in that era were on the brink of mass hedonism. Taking souls, unable to give in return. It was the ultimate transgression.”

Dean smirked.

“And as you know, then dying Bobby Singer had sacrificed his last soul piece to the earth, heartbroken from his lover’s demise, and had given almost his entire soul before they could achieve Soulshift—if she had even been his soulmate,” Dr. Shurley pointed out.

“And so he had given the consummate sacrifice—the last piece of himself to nature, to save the remaining people in Kansas, because  _they_ could still live, still love, unlike himself. They still had a chance.

“He gave up that piece to the earth in a small town—now Lawrence City—and witnesses said they had seen the earth swallow him whole, leaving only a vestige, a memento that he had ever been there, a memory of what he gave up and what that meant—”

“His last soul piece,” Dean finished for him.

“A remnant of the soul piece,” Dr. Shurley amended, “Just a sliver, to remind us what it means to give a piece of your soul and to accept one.”

Dean bobbed his head, absorbing the history.

“Only then the earthquakes receded.”

Dean’s head snapped to Dr. Shurley so blisteringly it was a surprise he didn’t break it. “Earthquakes?”

“Yes, seismic activities plagued Kansas during that specific time. It was how nature manifested its anger,” the chancellor explained, before adding, “According to history.”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. He felt like he was given a revelation but unsure as to how to interpret it.

“And now, a magnificent southern magnolia stands proud in the middle of KU campus—where Bobby Singer had given himself to the world.”

Dean remembered the large tree he rounded on when he entered the campus, blooming soft white flowers. He shivered, not quite knowing why.

“So let me get this straight: when Bobby sacrificed himself, people just. . . up and became normal?” he asked, bewildered.

Dr. Shurley smiled softly. “It wasn’t—couldn’t have been an easy path, Dean. I’m sure it took people time, maybe decades to right themselves. The important thing was that they tried and then they did.”

Dean let out a lengthy breath, and he even missed the fact that it was the first time Dr. Shurley called him by his first name. “That was an intense history lecture.”

It earned a chuckle from the chancellor. “And a free one, at that.”


	3. Chapter 2: Sticks and Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Also, I'd recommend re-reading the first chapter because I made some teensy-weensy changes. Hehez.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated. :>

When Dean and Dr. Shurley had been outside the Chamber of History, it had looked like any other room with probably. . . shelves? Pedestals? Dean didn’t know, he wasn’t a goddamn academic.

But inside, oh, nothing could have prepared Dean for the majestic room that is the University of Kansas’ Chamber of History.

The chamber was a long hall with divided clearances both left and right. It was adorned with wooden arches and the walls and columns were painted a dull aquamarine. The matted linoleum floor was a navy blue in the main hallway and progressed to more intricate patterns and colors within the recesses. All in all, it looked like a mini museum.

Each alcove was large, and the soft lighting made the place feel like a blast to the past, what with each artifact and antiquity immaculately placed on a plinth or a niche or hung on the wall, with plaques of its brief histories accompanying it.

As Dean and Dr. Shurley ambled across the hall, Dean spying on each expanse, which _could_ be unprofessional, but the chancellor was regaling him with brief descriptions of each item, and of course the pièce de résistance had to be at the end, the final and unparalleled showpiece, just in front of a large and superlative portrait of a cap-donning rugged young man with a Balbo beard, the Chamber of History’s most prized jewel. . .

_Eyes that would give the ocean a run for its money._

Dean shook his head. He must have been seeing things. But he looked up again and no, he wasn’t hallucinating, because he saw a pair of cerulean orbs stare back at him with an intensity that rivaled Dean’s.

Dean hadn’t noticed that there were other people in the hall.

“—doing here, Gabriel?”

Dean pretended he hadn’t zoned out. And if he had missed Gabriel’s high-pitched, exaggerated _Daddy!_ then nobody was really missing anything.

Dr. Shurley sighed and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “People, this is Agent Dean Smith. He’s FBI. While he’s here, I expect nothing less than your full cooperation in finding our lost artifact.” The chancellor’s croaky voice reverberated in the hall, just as Dean weakly presented his badge, and the doctor vaguely gestured to the lonesome pedestal where a small, velvet pillow rested, its middle depressed as though something circular made its home there.

On the pedestal, a metal plate was affixed, _The Silver Fragment_ engraved on top with a subtitle that said _Robert “Bobby” Singer’s Last Soul Piece_ and below a detailed account of its history. And golden barricade stanchions stood sentinel within a feet at every side of it.

When Dean looked up again, he realized that Gabriel was standing in the middle of two people—the one on his right a man with dark blonde hair in a dark suit and a purple dress shirt unbuttoned at the top, and the one on his left the man who owned the most blazing blue eyes Dean had ever seen. He was wearing a white dress shirt with a navy tie that nicely paired his eyes, a dark tweed waistcoat, and a tan overcoat, sporting a severe case of bedhead.

He was easily one of the most beautiful people Dean had ever seen.

So when Gabriel was snapping his fingers to capture Dean’s attention, because apparently he had tuned out of the conversation yet again, maybe his inattentiveness could be excused.

“Sorry?” he said, breaking out of his daze.

Gabriel had his eyebrow risen before advancing on Dean and pulling him all the way to the corner. Dean glanced at the chancellor but he was turned away from him.

“I need to talk to you, agent. . .”

“Smith.”

“Smith, right. I knew that,” Gabriel said emphatically, “I have reason to believe that the stolen footage can be recovered.”

Suddenly, all, _well, most_ , of Dean’s attention rounded on the shorter man. He was still glimpsing above Gabriel’s head to look at the overcoat-wearing man.

“What makes you say that?” inquired Dean.

“A specialist has assured me that the missing footage was _taken_ , not deleted. That means the thief has a copy, and not just a personal one, but one that can be hacked.”

Dean looked dubiously at him. “One, who is this specialist of yours? And two, if you had a lecture, how did you get that information so quickly?”

Gabriel’s eyes glinted mischievously, much like the expression that had been preserved in his father’s portrait. “Sorry, Dean-o, that I can’t help you with.”

Dean frowned. “You remember Dean but not Smith?” He narrowed his eyes at the professor’s goofy grin, but eventually caved in.

“Alright, fine. But you didn’t seem all that interested when I first asked. You even believed it was ‘long gone’—your words. What changed?” Dean glanced over Gabriel’s brown hair again, but the blue-eyed man had his back to Dean, engrossed in a conversation with the blonde man and the chancellor. He looked back at the short man disappointedly.

Gabriel shrugged. “I figured that if this has the FBI concerned, well, let’s just say it has me concerned.”

Dean nodded reluctantly, not wholly convinced. “Fine. Here, take my card. I’ll see what I can do with that information about the footage.” He handed Gabriel his card he pulled from his suit pocket. “And as I’ve told your father, I will have to talk to everyone who has or had access to this building the night of the incident, so why don’t you introduce me to your colleagues—” Dean gestured to the middle of the hall where the three men stood, but when he looked, there were only two left.

The man with the stunning blue eyes was gone.

• • •

Dean parked the Impala at the bar that was sandwiched between KU and the motel he was staying at. It was dark. He needed a drink. He needed to have his drink.

From Gabriel and Balthazar’s (he had learned the blonde man’s name that afternoon, and further learned to stay away from Gabriel and Balthazar when they were together) bickering and amplified childishness to the case stumping him because there was no scrap of evidence left at the crime scene, he really needed a drink.

Then there was the man with blue eyes that captured his attention that afternoon. No one for a long time had effortlessly winded Dean of coherent thoughts without so much as a second glance.

He lolled his head on the headrest and closed his eyes.

He thought back to when he had asked Gabriel the name of the dark-haired man. _Oh, you mean Castiel_ , Gabriel had smirked, _yeah, good luck with that_. Dean had been befuddled before Balthazar had snickered in his annoying English accent, _Tried it. Wouldn’t budge. Maybe it isn’t_ people _he’s looking for. If he’s even looking._

Dean had only grown more perplexed. So Gabriel had supplied, _We think he’s just not interested in people that way. You can try, though, if old men are up your alley._ The two men had laughed boisterously, and only increased in volume when they saw Dean had been nonplussed.

It chagrined him. But Dean wasn’t one to back away from a challenge. He prospered in it. So, Castiel Milton, Ed.D., Ph.D. who had merits that paralleled the chancellor’s, get ready for Dean Winchester.

Dean got out of his car and shut the door, then walked up to the neighborhood bar. When he entered, he saw that the place had a simple farmhouse setting, with a counter on the right with bar stools, and tables on the left.

Not many people were present, only a couple seated at a table, a lone man by the counter, and a bartender behind the worktop. Dean was on his way to a stool when he stopped dead in his tracks, because behind the lone man, a tan overcoat hung on his chair that could have only been brought about by fate.

He felt all rational thought abandon him once more, like they had that afternoon. He felt his blood pulsing a little bit faster.

The couple at the table looked at Dean curiously, because yeah, he had abruptly stopped, and yeah, he still wasn’t moving, but nothing to see here, people.

Dean bristled, swallowed, then signaled to the server, holding up a finger, “A beer, please.” She nodded and went to the backroom.

He saw that Castiel Milton already had a drink between his hands, both elbows on the counter.

The bartender, Jo, got back almost immediately and placed the bottle in front of Dean, disappearing again to the back. He took a swig graciously before ambling towards Castiel, beer in hand, sitting himself on the chair rather unceremoniously, heat creeping up his neck, but he cleared his throat to push the unfamiliar anxiety down.

It was now or never.

He turned to Castiel, giving a charming smile and trying to get his voice to lower, “Hey, it’s Dean Smith.”

Castiel didn’t reply. He had the bottle’s rim in front of his lips with his right hand.

Dean prodded. “And you’re—”

“Uninterested.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, as well as the hair at the back of his neck, because Castiel’s voice sounded as though he ate gravel for breakfast, and the octave his input had been in was lower than Dean’s current self-esteem.

He tried to recover quickly. “I _was_ gonna say Castiel Milton,” he said, dragging the name, tasting it on his tongue.

Castiel still didn’t spare him a glance. He continued to drink his beer.

“I heard you had a lecture this afternoon, papers to grade. You left before you let me know your name.”

Castiel sighed. “Then how do you know my name?”

“Through two little imps named Gabriel and Balthazar.” Dean grinned, trying his best charm Castiel’s ass off. So far, zilch.

“They are quite the pair of little buggers, aren’t they,” he said, sounding displeased.

“Tell me about it,” Dean muttered. But before they could fall back into silence, he huffed a laugh, “What are the odds of finding you at the same bar I’d be going to?” He smirked.

“You’d be surprised,” Castiel commented. “It was easy projecting which of the 83 bars in Lawrence you’d choose to stop by.”

Dean’s brows shot to his hairline once again, but Castiel hadn’t noticed.

“First, I mapped out the distance between the university campus and the motel you are staying at—after I found which motel, of course—and that narrowed it down to 14 bars. Crossing off the trendy, ‘hip’ pubs, there were four left. One had no parking space, another was too crowded, and the other was nearest to the motel, and I knew you didn’t have the patience to wait for another 10-minute drive, so.” He took the last gulp of his beer and settled it down the counter with more force than normal.

Dean was shell-shocked, unable to find words.

“H-How in the hell. . .” His mouth worked, and it was then that Castiel finally turned his body to Dean.

“Well, the internet was very helpful, but I couldn’t have done it without. . .” He tapped his right temple twice with his forefinger, eyes boring into Dean.

Dean shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand—”

Castiel’s exasperated sigh cut him off. “I don’t expect you to, Winchester.”

At that, Dean’s blood ran cold.

“I know who you are, or more importantly, _what you are_. Born 1921. Never achieved Soulshift, so here you are,” said Castiel scornfully, “Collecting souls, pretending to be a god. Parading that doctored FBI badge. Does crime-solving make you feel powerful? Invincible?”

Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This man in front of him _knew_ who Dean was. And he couldn’t understand how that was possible. “A bit sanctimonious for you to solve crimes when you're committing the greatest misdeed of all."

"I am only telling you this once, Dean Winchester,” Castiel said, voice dangerously low, “Leave Lawrence. Find free real estate elsewhere. Or everyone finds out. You wouldn’t want your cover blown now, would you? After all these decades in the wind?”

Menace started to build within Dean. He glared at the dark-haired man. “This is my hometown. You can’t run me out of here.”

Castiel scoffed. “And when were you last here, Dean? The ‘40s?”

Dean flinched at the jab.

“Now, leave, Dean. I expect you’ll be gone by morning.” He stood up and snatched his coat from the chair, leaving a twenty dollar bill on the counter before heading for the exit. Dean checked to see if the couple had heard their conversation, but saw that they were still preoccupied with their own.

Before Castiel could go any further, he asked, “Why are you doing this?”

He paused in his tracks, contemplating if he should answer. After a few seconds, he turned his head to give Dean one last scathing look.

“Because the last thing this city needs is another aberration.”

• • •

Dean had done his research. It was almost 4 a.m. in the morning, but the heavy bags under his eyes would be worth it, because now he was starting to figure out the enigma that is Castiel Milton.

He lost count as to how many times he’d scrolled down his file.

_Full Name: Castiel James Milton_

_Age: Unknown_

_Date of Birth: September 18 (birth year unknown; circa 1940)_

_Sex: Male_

_Marital Status: Single_

_Spouse: N/A_

_Father’s Full Name: Carver Edmund Milton_

_Mother’s Full Name: Anna Julie Milton (née McNiven)_

_Place of Birth: OH_

_Color or Race: White_

_Hair/Eyes: Black/Blue_

_SSN: 787-37-6288_

_Address: 1450 Jayhawk Blvd, Lawrence, KS 66045_

_Occupation: Professor, University of Kansas_

_Criminal History: None_

_Violence History: None_

_Traffic History: None_

_Soulshift: Not yet achieved_

Big talk for someone who was also immortal.

Dean also found Castiel’s research papers in the university, dating back to the 1960s, and ranging from the study of souls to the philosophical viewpoint of near-death experiences. He had been teaching in that school for almost 60 years. He was an accomplished, tenured Philosophy professor. No wonder he had credentials that could match the chancellor’s. He could be the _same age_ as him.

Surely the chancellor knew about it. That would mean everyone knew about it. Gabriel and Balthazar’s quip about Dean being into old men. _They knew_.

And everybody seemed to be okay with it. It didn’t look like Castiel was being run out of town for being around 80 years old and still looking as though he was in his prime 30s.

So why was he hell-bent on ridding Lawrence of Dean?

 _Another aberration, my ass_ , Dean sneered, _that means he sees himself as one_.

Castiel could try, but Dean wasn’t going to let anyone, even an immortal, to tell him what to do. He came for the Silver Fragment case, and he won’t be leaving until he’d solved it.

Dean Winchester had been through hell. It was going to take a lot more than threats and deductions to make him scram.

It had been a long night, sleep was overdue, and Dean knew he said to himself that Castiel should prepare for Dean Winchester, but Dean had been certainly and utterly unprepared for Castiel Milton.


	4. Chapter 3: Turn of Events

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated. :>

Castiel was seething. And maybe just a little bit unnerved. He had been pacing in his office all morning, asking himself if intimidating the immortal had been the correct choice.

Maybe he had gotten carried away.

But how he felt when he had first laid eyes on the fraudulent FBI Agent, well, let’s just say he had been shuddering.

The heady stare that the man had given him in the Chamber of History had thrown him off, and he couldn’t risk another look lest he lose his mind in green.

And so he had excused himself from the chancellor and Balthazar, telling them he had papers to grade, minds to hone. But in truth, he had begun an extensive research around one Dean Smith—but of course that wouldn’t be his real name. Castiel knew the moment the man presented his badge that it was fake. What could he say? Time had given him exceptional acuity.

So imagine Castiel’s surprise when he couldn’t find a Dean Smith in the FBI database.

Figures.

Castiel had called for the help of a student of his, Ash Lindberg. Ash had magic fingers that could know what you wanted to know or find what you wanted to find.

And Castiel wanted to find out who the green-eyed man was.

Ash had owed his professor a favor for not ratting him out to his superiors when he caught him doing favors for his fellow classmates. Nothing illegal, but still somewhat dishonest. Castiel had seen potential in the young man and good-naturedness in his eyes, so if he were to continue his extracurricular activities without hurting or exploiting anyone, then Castiel could turn a blind eye for the man in a mullet.

Castiel didn’t know what Ash was doing in Kansas and not in Massachusetts but he couldn’t say it wasn’t to his fortune.

“Why don’t you grab a photo of him in the university’s cameras and then scan his face through facial recognition?” Castiel had directed the young man who had been sitting on his desk chair, typing away, while he was leaning sideways against the window. After all, his abilities could only stretch far enough to reach the FBI database.

“Anything specific you wanna know, professor?” Ash had asked him, continuously clicking on the laptop’s button, to which Castiel replied simply, “Everything.”

And Ash had not disappointed him. They had also found the sole person in history who had not yet achieved Soulshift past their 50s—aside from Castiel, of course—Dean Winchester.

Castiel had been curious. He hadn’t expected the man to use his actual first name. But then again, he hadn’t expected that there was another immortal wandering the earth apart from himself. _Not that he was wandering. Or lost. Or any kind of drifting altogether._

Now Castiel knew everything there was to know about the elusive Dean Winchester, from the Impala he had bought in ‘67 to the numerous victims and witnesses involved in mysterious and seemingly unsolvable crimes that had described a tall, brown-haired man, handsome and charming, that had introduced himself as FBI, later finding out from the real FBI that they had not yet sent their agents to them, but the man had helped them in their situations nevertheless.

And then there were the rumors about the infamous Vagabond. A traveler and generous lover that would seduce men and women, give them the time of their life, make them feel special and adored, and once they had fallen in love with him, he would disappear and leave them in the dust. Cold. Dark. Broken.

These hearsays dated all the way back to the 1950s. Coming from all of the states of America.

And Castiel knew then that Dean was wicked. While he was an immortal, it had stemmed from the inability to fall in love with anyone, and everyone’s inability to fall in love with him. But at least he wasn’t preying on innocent people, breaking hearts and taking souls, was that the phrase?

No, Dean was detrimental to whatever city he situated. He poisoned everything he touched. And Castiel loved Lawrence too much to let the man pave his ruinous path here. It was bad enough that earth had been upset for almost a month now. No, he had to take matters into his own hands.

So he had thanked Ash for his assistance, assured the kid that he did good. _Anytime for one of my favorite professors_ , he had winked at Castiel.

Dean Winchester was the amalgamation of every single thing Castiel had ever looked down on. Selfish. Egotistical. Rotten. A fake. It was pathetic. He wasn’t boring for most people but Castiel found himself indifferent in the face of Dean’s long and extensive résumé.

And that was when he began to zero in on Dean’s prospective locus.

Now the next morning after Castiel had launched his ultimatum, he couldn’t stay still. Something was bugging him, and he wasn’t sure what.

And as if on cue, there was a knock on his office door. He stopped pacing defeatedly and placed his fists on his desk, head slumped.

“Come in.”

Castiel heard the knob unlatch and someone’s footsteps enter the room. When he turned around to face the visitor, he felt his breath leave him.

Dean Winchester stood in all his suited glory and closed the door behind him, a folder in his left hand.

To make matters more disturbing, he turned the small mechanism on the doorknob, effectively locking anyone out—or maybe locking themselves in.

Dean took sight of the wide-eyed man and hummed nonchalantly, ambling across the office and opening the manila.

Castiel gathered his wits and growled, “What do you think you’re doing here?”

“Would you look at that,” he whistled, feigning deafness and flipping through some papers.

“You have balls harder than steel, Winchester,” Castiel snarled, moving away from where Dean was advancing.

“I do, don’t I? But yours are larger than Texas,” he quipped. He nabbed a photo from the folder and showed it to the slightly shorter man. Castiel’s eyes grew at the photograph, but before he could study it further, Dean returned it to the compilation and continued nearing the desk. Castiel back-walked away from it.

“The size of Texas? That’s your retaliation?” But the guard in his voice decreased, and he seemed a little wary.

Dean rounded the table and slapped the folder down, then sat on Castiel’s cushioned seat, slouching and linking his fingers on his abdomen.

“Hmm? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over all the hypocrisy. . .” Dean drawled, an air of someone who had the upper hand pervading him, “And the felony that you’ll be facing.”

Castiel snorted, “What are you going to do? Turn me in to the fake FBI?”

Dean’s lips quirked at the corner. “No, but I could send an email to Chancellor Shurley with all of these photos.” He pushed the folder towards Castiel.

Castiel reluctantly padded closer and swiped the manila into his arms.

When he opened it, he cursed at himself internally.

There in the printed photo from a surveillance camera was Castiel in the third floor hallway of the Singer Hall, holding the knob of his door to a close, his other hand clutching his temple severely, head faced to the end of the corridor where the stairs were located. He was wearing his favorite brown overcoat, and the unmistakable timestamp at the lower right corner had his mouth running dry.

_2019-5-12 1:10:38_

Dean leaned forward, forearms against the desk and fingers entwined.

“That’s why you want me the hell out of Dodge? You wanna cover up that you stole Kansas’ artifact?”

Castiel breathed lowly, “I didn’t steal it.”

But Dean didn’t hear him, or pretended he didn’t.

“What’s your motive, professor? Desperate for a drop of soul after all these decades?“

“I didn’t steal it,” Castiel repeated.

“Wanted a soul piece to yourself because no one could ever love you? That must be it, a stuck-up little virgin couldn’t take the perpetual dry spell, right?”

“While your theories are no doubt scintillating,” Castiel deadpanned, “I assure you I didn’t steal the Silver Fragment.”

Dean regarded him for a moment. “Yeah, see, about that. I’m sure you can understand why I don’t believe you.”

“The surveillance, yes,” he said acridly, “I can see how that would make me seem guilty; roaming the building within the hour it was stolen—”

“And don’t forget how you reported that you were at home the night of the incident,” Dean supplied.

Castiel pursed his lips. “Yes, that. But I guarantee that I didn’t steal it. Forgive me if I don’t feel the need to explain further.”

“Apology not accepted, professor,” Dean clicked his tongue, “Didn’t you hear me say that I don’t believe you?”

“And didn’t you hear me say that I really don’t care what you believe?” Castiel retorted. He flicked the photos in the folder and saw shots of him at different positions, all pointing to him heading to the staircase, still holding his head, and one shot where he was leaning his weight on the wall. “How did you even get these? I thought the footage was deleted.”

“I had a friend help out, but that’s not the point.” He shook his head, palpably irritated. “What do you mean ‘you thought’? Aren’t you the one who had them removed?”

Castiel sighed, sounding resigned. “No, I did not. I didn’t know the security footage was stolen early on, so when I found out before the cops could question me, it was in the spur of the moment that I had said I was home the night of the 11th. I knew it would just draw unnecessary attention to say that I had been here.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me that the Silver Fragment being stolen and you being in the same building the same night in the same window time, oh, and you lying about your location that night, is all just a huge, fatty coincidence?”

“Exactly!” Castiel exclaimed, missing the sarcasm. Dean chuckled dryly. “Yeah, tell that to the jury.” He got up from Castiel’s chair and buttoned his jacket, leaving the desk and started for the exit. Castiel was swept with panic.

“Wait!” Dean stopped walking and turned to face the wrought man.

“It was because of the earthquake,” Castiel said in a rush, and Dean scrunched up his brows. “There was an earthquake the night of the theft?”

Castiel tilted his head curiously, and Dean didn’t know if he found it endearing or annoying. He went with annoying. “You haven’t heard about the earthquakes?”

Dean shook his head.

“Kansas is being plagued with nature’s fury for almost a month now. No extreme damage, but people are starting to fret.” Castiel hesitated.

“Spit it out,” Dean urged, and the shorter man scowled.

“I haven’t told anyone about this, but I feel the earthquakes differently. Others would initially mistake earthquakes as headaches, but I would describe them as an excruciating migraine. They would always accompany. . . unsavory visions. The last time I felt it was that forsaken night. I tried to leave the building—but it stopped when I reached the History Chamber.” Castiel subtly gulped at his unanticipated confession. “I was surprised to find the door ajar. As though. . . the room had been waiting for me.”

Castiel paused, trying to discern the taller man’s expression. It was heedful, and maybe just a little curious.

“I peeked inside and saw the soul piece at the end of the hall—you wouldn’t miss it, it’s very bright—but I only closed the door and left. I didn’t steal it,” he said forcefully and with finality.

Dean still appeared skeptical, undecided whether to take the man at his word. But he had spoken with such fervor that it didn’t feel like a lie. Dean glared at the man’s eyes, trying to find a hint of untruthfulness, getting lost in blue for a mere second. He snapped himself out of it.

“What _were_ you doing here the night of May 11?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure if you noticed, Winchester, but I am an academic. A professor and a researcher. I lose myself when I get engrossed in my work and studies and I miss the passage of time.”

Dean grimaced.

“So when you said at the bar that you didn’t want any more aberrations. . .”

“I meant the earthquakes. I trust you know what earthquakes used to entail before the 20th century.”

Dean abruptly remembered Dr. Shurley’s words.

_Seismic activities plagued Kansas during that specific time. It was how nature manifested its anger, according to history._

A shiver went down his spine as he recalled it.

“Ever since I heard that the soul piece was missing, I can’t explain it but it felt like I was being drawn to back to Lawrence,” admitted Dean. “But I never experienced a migraine. Maybe it has something to do with us being the only long-standing _aberrations_ in the world?”

Castiel looked away.

“If you didn’t steal it, then who did?”

Castiel breathed a sigh of relief, because as apathetic as he had been in exposing Dean, if people found photos of him in Singer Hall that unfortunate night after claiming the opposite, he might as well have dug himself his own grave. He valued the chancellor’s trust too much to let that happen.

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

• • •

“Hey, Charlie. Just calling to tell you good job on getting the security footage. Keep on cracking,” Dean said to his phone. He was truly grateful for Charlie Bradbury, his associate and friend he met during a case in San Diego where she had attended a convention. Some called it a fluke, but Dean called it destiny. She was like a sister he never wanted.

When Dean had called her for help, she hadn’t thought twice about it. She immediately put her typing gloves on.

Dean instructed her to find missing surveillance footage of a university because he had been informed that the feed had been taken rather than deleted. Charlie had confirmed as much when she accessed the KU’s database and found encrypted files deeply buried. Someone went to a lot of trouble ensuring that whatever it was remained hidden.

But when Charlie had begun decrypting the first file—the first of six—she gave Dean the file through email within 15 minutes. _Hey, that wasn’t so bad_ , Dean had praised. _No_ , Charlie had sounded unsettled, _that was almost too easy, Dean_.

But Dean shrugged her off. _You’re just doing a damn good job, Charlie_ , he had said, and told her to continue with the remaining five files. Charlie had told him to be careful. And Dean had told her that he was always careful.

Dean was still in Professor Milton’s office. They had a truce that they would stop trying to drive each other crazy and out of town, and Dean had fought that if Castiel, an immortal, was experiencing weird stuff during earthquakes and around soul artifacts, and he had been, too, then he was probably involved just as much. It vexed Castiel that it made a lick of sense. So he had swallowed his pride and now, they were busy studying the Silver Fragment, if there was anyone in history who had bad blood with it.

“The Silver Fragment, as it is officially known, is a small glass orb that could fit in the palm of your hand that cocoons the remnants of Robert “Bobby” Singer’s last piece of soul. Mostly it’s just traces, swirls of silver. It’s not technically a soul piece, as most people erroneously call it, but it’s the closest thing we have to glimpsing the genuine form of a soul. People all around the states that come to visit the Silver Fragment often report differing feelings when facing it; mostly positive feelings like contentment or peace. It’s been a modern tradition that one must visit the Chamber of History in KU at least once in their life,” Castiel explained in what Dean liked to call ‘Professor Mode’ when he had asked him what he knew about the soul piece.

“A trivia: Bobby Singer was actually born in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. His family only moved to Lawrence when he was a child.”

“Cool,” Dean remarked from where he had his back leaned against the professor’s window. Castiel rolled his eyes, seated home in his swivel chair and reading something up on his laptop. “I’d say that it’s more than just ‘cool’ but I never really had the same appreciation towards all-things soul like my colleagues.”

Dean was bemused. “What do you mean? You had a shit-ton of research about soul topics since the 60s.”

Castiel looked at him carefully. “Just because I had a lot to say about it doesn’t mean I liked it.”

Dean snorted. “People would beg to differ. They talked about something a lot if they liked it, right?”

“I’m not people, Dean,” Castiel said to his laptop, before realizing what he said and amending it, “What I mean is that I’m not like other people.”

Dean wore his shit-eating grin. “I heard.”

Castiel huffed indignantly. “Let me guess. Gabriel or Balthazar?”

Dean turned towards the window, scrutinizing the view where a gargantuan magnolia strewn with white centered the buildings in the campus. “Both.”

Castiel muttered something too quiet for Dean to catch.

“But neither are you, Dean.”

At that, Dean gripped the window frame a little tighter.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Castiel didn’t reply but Dean heard the typing sounds resume.

“How did the Silver Fragment become a museum piece? Like, who put it in a ball? _How_ did they put it in a ball? Who called it the Silver Fragment first?”

“A good friend of his, whom I am sure you know, collected it in his hands. He said that it bent wherever it was pushed. Can you believe that he pocketed it? It took him a while to find a decent glassblower that could create the perfect sphere for the unparalleled relic.”

Dean hummed. “And who was this friend?”

Castiel smirked. “Charles Shurley.”

If Dean had been drinking something, he surely would have spat it out.

“The chancellor?!” he exclaimed incredulously, eyebrows shooting to his hairline.

Castiel nodded amusedly. “He mostly kept it at first when he had been building the University of Kansas from the ground—and around Bobby’s sapling.”

Dean groaned internally. “I knew that doctor was holding back on me. How old even is he?”

Castiel smiled, the first true smile he gave Dean that wasn’t sardonic or haughty. “He’s turning 174 this year.”

Dean’s eyes almost bulged out of its sockets. “Well, shit.”

Castiel hid his amusement. “That is the usual reaction.”

That was why Dr. Shurley had the air of someone who’d experienced those events firsthand, and not just learned in a lecture hall. He’d lived through those times. He was his own walking artifact.

And the reason why the loss of the Silver Fragment had affected him personally.

And if Dean wasn’t too busy wrapping his head around the doctor’s age, he could have appreciated the way Castiel’s eyes gentled at the mention of Dr. Shurley.


	5. Chapter 4: Singer Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated. :>

Dean had circled his motel room more than three times already, trying to find all of the reports and research regarding the Silver Fragment. He knew he was a tad disorganized, but he and Castiel had pulled an all-nighter and when he got back to the motel, he just let himself be pulled by gravity, forgetting that he had dossiers in his hands.

He had seriously underestimated the immortal’s ability to forget the time. When he had been trying to blink the sleepiness out of his eyes, Castiel was still reading news reports in his computer with the same intensity he had ten hours ago. With the absence of caffeine.

Would you look at that, they’d spent the whole day and night together. Sans a murder.

It was a close call when Dean had suggested they get takeout for dinner, and Castiel had replied that losing their momentum was not worth a meager thing like sustenance.

“Just because we don’t grow old doesn’t mean we can’t die, smart guy!” Dean had exasperatedly said, to which Castiel dryly replied, “People who haven’t Soulshifted die every day, Winchester. I’m not a simpleton.”

Dean continued arguing that he needed his brain food, but Castiel only insulted him with a “What do you need the brain food for, no-brainer?”

They almost went at each other before Dean clenched his fists, willing himself to relax, calmly remind the pestilent man that they made a truce not to drive each other crazy, said that he was going to order Chinese, and if Castiel didn’t want any, he could serve himself a large helping of malnutrition.

They hadn’t wiped each other clean off the face of the earth after that but if looks could kill. . . Well, they might as well have.

Today, he was feeling exceptionally murderous. Sure, they now know everything there is to know about Bobby Singer’s soul remnant and they’d read some studies regarding things soul, but was it really worth the large bags residing below Dean’s eyes? 

He gripped his hair, still looking for missing papers and print-outs before he headed back to the university and began questioning the Philosophy and History Department.

“Aha!” Dean yelped when he found a research paper about six pages lodged between his bed and the nightstand. _How in the possible hell did that get in there?_ he thought.

It was only when he found two news clippings crumpled beneath the door that he deemed he found everything.

Then he hopped in the shower, donned his suit, and went to the nearest diner for brain food.

• • •

Castiel had just arrived at his office after an early lecture with freshmen. It always stimulated a rush within him to instigate a passion for philosophy within his students, just like how it was first instigated within him decades ago. And now that the term was nearing its end and finals looming over young minds, there was something worth reminiscing about it.

There was a knock on his door, and his immediate thought was _Please let it not be the Winchester._

He was about to give a green-light when it swung open and revealed a grinning Shurley holding a large tupperware of—are those cupcakes?—on his right hand.

He let himself in and closed the door behind him, beelining to where Castiel was standing beside his window.

Gabriel held the box up to Castiel’s face. “The missus made cupcakes!”

Castiel sighed, walked to his swivel chair and sat. “She’s too good for you, Gabe.”

Gabriel huffed and sat on one of the two chairs in front of Castiel’s desk. “You’re just jealous that no one bakes you cupcakes, Cassie.”

The shorter man opened the translucent plastic box and picked a green-colored diabetes in a cupcake liner. He pushed the tupperware towards Castiel and he skeptically took one.

“Why would I need someone to bake me cupcakes when you share yours?” Gabriel shrugged in concession. “So early in the morning, Gabe?” he asked, examining the blue-frosted cake in his fingers. Gabriel only shook his head, green icing smothered on his upper lip.

“Never too early for sweets. Especially ones made with love.”

Castiel shook his head, but there was a slight smile on his face. “How is Rowena?”

Gabriel snorted. “Spending more time with her father-in-law than her husband. Sometimes I think she likes him better.” He frowned. “They probably gossip about me like teenagers.”

“Gabe, she lives with you. Technically her time is spent more with you than any other person.” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the input.”

Castiel was still working on his cupcake experimentally, eyes widening when he took his first bite. “I keep forgetting how good of a baker Rowena is.”

“And a cook. Ohh, she makes one mean pot pie,” Gabriel moaned. “I’m salivating already just thinking about it.”

“That’s because of the whole cupcake stuffed in your mouth.”

Gabriel swallowed his food. “You should come over for dinner sometime. That is after I pry her away from gossiping like old ladies with dad and remind her what _my_ sweet, sugary love tastes like.”

Castiel made a sound of disgust. “Please, Gabriel, not while I’m in the room.”

Gabriel chuckled as he took his second cupcake. “Grow up, Cassie.”

The taller man visibly bristled. “I am grown up. It’s the people around me that are acting immaturely.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” he pacified. “Geez, it’s like you’re on constant battle mode.”

Castiel deflated. Gabriel was one of the very few people he could tolerate freely and could tolerate him. He appreciated how Gabriel never made him feel like he wasn’t accepted. Balthazar was a good friend, too, but sometimes he could be overbearing. It was Gabriel who truly adjusted to Castiel, but at the same time made his own little nook in the older man’s life.

Castiel had known Gabriel since he was a baby. Heck, he was the one who introduced the chancellor to his late wife. He was there when Dr. Shurley got married and started a family.  Somehow he always felt like he was unofficially part of it. After all, it was the chancellor that took Castiel under his wing when he was existentially and literally lost.

Gabriel probably deserved a better friend than him.

He lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Gabe.”

Gabriel heard the sincerity in Castiel’s words. “No need, Cassie. I understand. Something bothering you?”

He offered more cupcakes to the man, but Castiel declined, content with his almost-finished blue-frosted one.

As Castiel devoured the last bite, he pulled a napkin from the tissue box and wiped his hands, subsequently offering some to Gabriel who took two graciously.

“That FBI Agent—what do you think of him?” inquired Castiel as he threw the used tissue in the trash.

Gabriel looked at Castiel curiously, surprised at his query.

The outwardly aloof man usually just ignored people that weren’t. . . well, he usually just ignored people.

“He seems okay. I gave him some info about the missing tapes. Why do you ask?”

Castiel felt his blood run cold. “You were the one who found the stolen surveillance?”

Gabriel took another cupcake. “No, I just told him the footage was taken and not erased. I left him to do the legwork.”

The taller man felt himself breathe again. “I see.”

Gabriel arched a brow. “How do you know the footage has been found?”

“Oh,” Castiel voiced, hoping he didn’t sound anxious. “He told me whilst coordinating about soul topics. He thinks it might help him find whoever pilfered the Silver Fragment.”

Gabriel hummed in acknowledgement, still quizzical, as he finished his cupcake, and Castiel saw there was one left in the container. “Rowena’s going to throw a fit when she finds out you finished those cupcakes in one sitting.”

The shorter man winked. “What do you mean? I split the cupcakes equally with you.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Do not expect me to support your fallacious story.”

Gabriel clicked his tongue as he picked up the final confection, moaning at the large bite.

“Sweet momma, I knew there were perks to Soulshifting,” he said, voice muffled.

Castiel didn’t know how to feel about that. While he was averse to any idea pertaining to a change in his own soul, he was genuinely happy being best man at Gabriel and Rowena’s wedding (Dr. Shurley’s, too, at that). His speech was half-filled with baby Gabe anecdotes and half-stammering about the beauty of soulmates.

He wanted to hurl after that. But Gabriel had hugged him so tightly he could feel the gratitude seep to his bones that he couldn’t find it in him to be his old, cynical self for the rest of the night.

That was 19 years ago.

He had talked about how Rowena and Gabriel fitted each other perfectly, and that no one would tolerate Gabriel’s childishness but Rowena, and he had found himself meaning it.

It was the only time he ever engaged in such sentimentality and he would do it again in a heartbeat. For the inexplicably non-overweight man with the appetite of an elephant horde.

For Gabe.

• • •

Dean was climbing up the staircase to the 3rd floor where most of the Philosophy faculty resided, briefly considering stopping by Castiel’s office, but the need for peace of mind prevailed in him.

He double-checked the list of professors in his folder, where it showed five doctors: Castiel Milton, Balthazar Roché, Cole Trenton, Mick Davies, and Hannah Carroll.

He arrived at the last office on the right, tiptoeing when he passed Castiel’s office, and politely knocked. He’d already interviewed Balthazar so there was no need to subject himself to that grievance again.

He heard some shuffling before the door was opened by a man around his 40s with dark, cropped hair and a fashion style that was significantly gruffer than those of other faculty members.

“May I help you?” he asked.

Dean cleared his throat, grabbing his badge from his suit pocket and flashing it.

“FBI Agent Dean Smith. Here to ask about the soul piece theft.”

“Oh, yeah, the chancellor sent out a memo that the FBI would be around for some questions. Come inside, agent.”

It was a relatively fruitless interview. Dr. Trenton had been a faithful faculty member for half his life, gaining his post-graduate education at the same university. No priors and no link.

“Believe me, agent, I’ve got no motive and opportunity to steal the fragment. I’m happily married and Soulshifted; my wife and neighbors can vouch that I was at our monthly gathering the night it was stolen.”

Dean sighed as he left the professor’s office, reminding himself to verify his alibi. The more he heard other people’s defenses, the more Castiel seemed to be a person of interest due to the contrast of his history and background. But Dean was in cahoots with the acidic professor now. And he (well, most of him) believed his story.

He walked past Balthazar and Castiel’s office and proceeded to the next story.

Dean knocked on the first door of the 4th floor, and it swung open to reveal a woman in her 30s. Dark, curly hair, and a kind expression on her face. “Yes?”

“Professor Carroll. FBI Agent Smith.” Dean showed his badge. Dr. Carroll’s brows rose slightly, and the Dean missed the microexpression as he tucked the badge back into his suit.

When he looked back up and into the room, there was an abrupt halt in movement. Dean leaned his head to see closer, and there was a man, mirroring standard professor fashion, standing in front of the wooden table.

Dr. Carroll seemed to forget propriety. “Am I interrupting something?”

She snapped out of it and stepped aside to let Dean in. “Nothing at all. Dr. Davies and I were just going over the next term’s curriculum. Please come in.”

The man by the table stepped forward, cautious. “Uh, good afternoon, agent.” _Great, another Englishman._

Dean nodded in acknowledgment. “Well since you’re both here, maybe we can compromise and I’ll just ask you joint questions. Save time. That okay?”

Dr. Carroll and Dr. Trenton glanced at each other simultaneously. And then simultaneously looked away.

“That’s fine.”

“Maybe that’s not—”

They spoke simultaneously.

Dr. Carroll shifted awkwardly. “Well, if it can’t be helped,” she capitulated.

It was a very tense questioning. At least for those with doctorates.

When they were asked about their location the night of the incident, they seemed embarrassed.

“Um, funny story. We were in overtime,” Dr. Carroll spoke tentatively. Dean scribbled some notes. “We?”

They glimpsed at each other again, and Dean was bothered. “Is there something I’m missing here? A lover’s quarrel, maybe—?”

Both of them shot up.

“We’re not lovers.”

“We’re not quarreling.”

Dr. Carroll gave the man a piercing glare, visibly reddening him.

Dean’s expression screamed _Yikes_.

“Let me get this straight. Both of you were here in this building the night of the theft?” Dean clarified. They nodded slowly.

“In your respective offices?”

It was Dr. Carroll who flushed, but Dr. Davies who answered.

“Erm. . . no,” he dragged the ‘o’.

“Ah, I see,” Dean pieced. “Right, none of you heard or saw anything?”

“Well we heard and saw quite a lot, just not what about the soul—ow!” Dr. Carroll slapped his arm. “Do you ever shut up, Mick?”

“Hannah, if you’d just listen—”

“Not now! There’s an FBI Agent present!”

They fell in silence.

“We didn’t really notice anything except the earthquake,” Dr. Davies supplied, and Dean fought the surfacing smirk.

“So you both spent the night here?”

“. . . yes.”

Dean let out his inevitable sigh. “Well, if you have any other information, don’t hesitate to call.” He handed each of them his card and stood up to leave.

Dean ended up leaning on the fourth floor window, organizing all the garnered information in his head into a more comprehensible construct. So far, nothing rose red flags.

He started when he heard a door slam behind him. He heard an upset Englishman muttering under his breath and saw Dr. Davies leave Dr. Carroll’s office and enter his own. At the same time, Gabriel emerged from the stairs and spotted Dean at the end of the hallway. He grinned.

“Fancy seeing you here, Agent Dean-o!” He strode up next to Dean and looked out the campus. “Enjoying the view? Although I have a much prettier view to recommend you, and he’s just a floor below us.” He winked.

Dean was caught off guard. “Professor Milton?!” he spluttered, and the shorter man was gleeful at his reaction.

“You can just call him Castiel. It annoys him more,” he cackled. Dean shook his head and proceeded to change the subject.

“So, is the Philosophy Department usually an office romcom?”

“Oh, you mean those two lovesick idiots beside me? Yeah, they’ve been too chickenshit to man up to their feelings for three years now,” Gabriel sighed exaggeratedly.

Dean recalled their conversation. Another reason that Mick had no motive was that he was completely unfamiliar with the Silver Fragment, seeing as he grew up and got his education in London, only migrating to the States three years ago to gain experience teaching in a different country.

“Well, I wouldn’t say they’re unaware anymore,” Dean commented thoughtfully, and Gabriel grew ecstatic. “Finally!”

“Although I don’t think things are going the way you want them to.”

Gabriel waved his hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Things have a way of working themselves out.”

Dean sniggered. “Like finding the soul piece thief?”

Gabriel considered him. “Now things like those need people to work it out. And people are working it out.”

Dean nodded vaguely before looking at the grounds again.

“Well, better prepare for my next class. Good luck again, agent. For the case and for Cassie.” He gave another mirthful grin before heading to his office and shutting it close, not giving enough time for Dean to protest.

He shook his head and headed to the next floor to rest of the History faculty.

It was mostly uneventful and barren. Both Dr. Fergus Crowley and Dr. Bartholomew Adam were out of town for a conference the night of the theft so they couldn’t provide any pertinent information.

Then Dean moved to the final office—Dr. Michaela Shurley, the chancellor’s begotten daughter, and the head of the History Department.

When the professor opened the door to Dean’s knock, her face shifted from one of surprise to one of a darker flavor enough to make Dean gulp.

“Agent Smith. My father told me about you. Do come in.”

She held the door open for Dean, moving with grace and purpose. He walked in to see the largest office in the building, and the most elaborate.

 _Well, she is the chancellor’s daughter_ , Dean thought as he took a seat on the couch she gestured at him. _Damn, the only one with a couch, too._

“How may I be of service, agent?” she asked, extracting a wine glass and bottle from her desk and placing it in front of Dean, popping the bottle open.

Dean declined with his hand. “I don’t drink on the job, professor.” But she was already pouring the wine to Dean’s then her glass.

“Come now, agent,” she purred, and Dean’s hair stood on end. “It’ll be our little secret.”

He laughed inelegantly as Dr. Shurley unbuttoned her suit jacket and sat on the couch opposite Dean. She was surely a different breath of air compared to the other professors who dressed as though in a 1970s British film.

“Professor Shurley, I’m here to ask—”

She held her hand up to stop him. “Please, call me Mike.”

Dean closed his mouth. Guess Gabriel isn’t the only one with appellation issues.

“Right. I’m here to ask you a few questions about the stolen Silver Fragment.”

Mike hummed. “What makes you so sure it was stolen?”

Dean was confounded. “The security footage in between the theft was stolen; the last surveillance is it being in the frame and the next hour, it was gone. That hour of footage was gone. The perp was covering his tracks.”

The woman smiled slyly, twirling her glass in her hand. “But did you find any other indication that it was stolen? Forced entry? Tripped alarms?”

“Unfortunately, no. The thief was good in clearing evidence. But rest assured that he’ll be brought to justice,” said Dean firmly, opening his folder and clicking his pen.

“Now, where were you the morning of May 12, 1:00 - 2:00 a.m.?”

Mike’s lips quirked at the corner. “I was at home, sound asleep.”

“Before and after that?”

“Well, I arrived at home around 8 p.m. from a dinner with my close friends. After that, I was in bed by 10 and woke up at 6 for an early class.”

“I’ll be needing a list of those you were with to verify your story.” Dean jotted some notes.

Mike placed her glass on the coffee table. “Of course, agent, anything you need.”

Dean stopped writing and slowly looked up. Mike was leaning towards him, elbows crossed on her legs and smile twinkling impishly.

“Uh, can you tell me about your background here in the university? How long have you been teaching here?”

Mike drew back and placed her forearms on the sofa. “I lived my life here, agent. Graduated 1992. Got my Ph.D. by 1997. I’ve been a professor here ever since.”

Dean did the math in his head, and his eyes widened. “You’re 50 years old?”

“49,” she corrected, and smirked. “I don’t look like it, do I?”

Dean shook his head, eyebrows cocked. “No, actually. You could pass for a solid 40.”

Mike chuckled lightly. “You flatter me, agent.” But then her expression turned dark. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation somewhere more. . . private.” She inched towards Dean, movements sly.

“Say yes, Dean.”

Dean was caught in the moment. “I, uhh—”

And by God’s timing, the phone rang shrilly at the same time the door pounded. “Mike! Dad’s calling for a family meeting!”

Dean breathed a sigh of relief as Mike growled at Gabriel’s shouts. She stood up and answered the phone. “What?”

“I said dad called for a family meet—”

“No, not you!” she shouted severely at the door.

“How was I supposed to know,” Dean heard Gabriel’s muffled mumble.

“Fine.” Mike ended the call and went to open the door.

Gabriel peeked inside and saw Dean. “Oh. Dean. Fancy seeing you here. Again.” He smirked and Mike glowered.

Dean stood and headed to leave. “I think I got everything, Mike. Thanks.”

“Are you sure?” she asked ruefully as Gabriel concurrently said, “‘Mike’?”

“Yes. I’ll let you know if I need to ask follow-up questions. Gabriel.” He saluted the siblings and crossed the threshold.

“Maybe you should give me your card, in case I unearth useful information!” she called.

Dean turned with reticence. “Um, Gabriel has my card. You can get it from him.” With that, he descended the stairs and regretted leaving the wine untouched.


	6. Chapter 5: Buckle Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated. :> I'd really love to know what you think so far!
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://missbeansprout.tumblr.com), sexy people.

“Remember that the world is made of dichotomies which give each other balance. Day, night. Fire, water. Yin and yang. Nature versus nurture. ‘For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.’ But we’re not here to talk about Einstein.”

Castiel heard some light snickering from his class.

“When Nietzsche published his book in 1872—The Birth of Tragedy—many contrasted its theme to his alleged nihilistic orientation. In his book, he introduced two creative energies: Apollonian, the rational, and Dionysian, the irrational—both derived from the eponymous deities. In other words, intellect and passion; mind and soul; thought and feeling; brain and. . . heart. For those who marvel in that kind of terminology.”

Laughter reverberated in the auditorium, like it usually does when its professor not-so-subtly expresses his disdain for anything kitsch.

Castiel chortled lightly, striding slowly across the floor with hands behind his back.

“Very Descartes, yes? The mind-body dualism? The Catholic Church greatly benefited from its conception during the Renaissance because then science and religion could finally be asunder. Church and state. Physical matter and spirit. Is it physiological or psychological? Those were the ubiquitous debates at the time.

“How does that relate to our study of art from a philosophical perspective? Well, Nietzsche believed that the equilibrium of those two principles is affirming—showing us that we can still find comfort even if we all meet a sorrowful end.

“Art is a medium and we speak a universal language through it; one unbound by language or cultural barriers, and prejudice. Nietzsche begged to differ with Socrates’ notion that emotion only clouds our reason, because according to him, it would be a dire existence without emotion.”

Castiel paused at the side of the projector screen. “Is that the purpose of emotion? To make life worth living? Or does it only cancel the Apollonian out? Inhibit our full intellectual potential?”

The bell rang signaling the end of the period, and Castiel’s students shuffled immediately in their seats, gathering their belongings.

“That’s what all of you will answer on a two-page essay to be handed in our next meeting—our last, might I remind you. Cite your sources. And don’t think I forgot about your assignments. Put them on my desk before you go to an early lunch like Pavlovian dogs.”

Castiel heard groaning in the bustle but all of them placed their papers on his desk and filed out peacefully. When he saw Kevin Tran pass by him, he caught him by the shoulder.

Kevin was taken aback, eyes wide. “Mr. Tran, good work on your last essay. I particularly enjoyed the part where you contend the dilemma of determinism with meliorism in the human condition.”

He smiled meekly, abashed. “Uh, thank you, Professor Milton. I appreciate it.”

Castiel smiled at him in reply and let him leave.

When the auditorium was left empty apart from Castiel, he went to gather his students’ essays and chucked it into his leather briefcase, along with his memory drive.

He would’ve called it a good morning but he had to be visited by the object of his aggravation.

He heard three discrete claps resound in the empty space. “Very intriguing lecture, professor. I’d give it a solid B-minus.”

Castiel rolled his eyes despite not looking up. “It’s usually the instructor that grades the student, not the other way around. Not that I expected you to know that. When were you last in a classroom?”

Dean scoffed. “This ain’t a classroom. This is a museum,” he said, looking up at the large expanse of the lecture hall, pausing by the last row as if expecting to hear something strange. “How the hell do they hear you from back here?”

“It’s not that big of an area. Sound waves bounce, Winchester.”

“Shhh!” Dean waved his hands frantically and traipsed briskly down the steps to Castiel’s desk. “Someone could hear you! Don’t call me ‘Winchester’!” he whispered in panic.

Castiel rolled a shoulder. “What should I call you then? Vagabond?”

Dean shushed him again, louder this time, and coming in front of where Castiel was clicking his briefcase closed. “Do you want me to blow my cover?!”

Castiel opened his mouth to speak but Dean held up a finger to stop him. “Don’t answer that.”

Castiel gave him a deadpan expression before grabbing the leather strap of his case and aiming towards the exit. Dean followed his trail.

“Is there anything I can do for you, _agent_?” He placed emphasis on the title as they left the auditorium, bounding for the stairs.

“I’ll have you know that Charlie decrypted the second of the missing surveillance,” Dean said proudly while they descended the stairs.

“And?” Castiel prompted.

Dean dwindled. “Um, so far, nada. But she’s already working on the next ones.”

Castiel thrummed in acknowledgment. “And?”

Dean looked at him testily. “And I was on my way to ask a relative of Bobby Singer some questions, and you’re not looking like a good, compliant partner.”

“I can’t be your partner, I don’t have a fake badge like yours—”

“Will you cut it out! If someone overhears or finds out, I’m not the only one in trouble, remember that!” Dean whispered sharply, and Castiel’s emerging smirk faltered. “I’ll just be your associate.”

“Whatever.”

“Good afternoon, professor,” a female student greeted as she passed them. Castiel smiled and nodded to her. Dean let his gaze linger for a second longer at the young blonde before they reached the ground floor. “She’s cute. You’re quite famous with your students, aren’t you?”

“Well, I am their oldest professor. And probably the oldest person they know. Aside from the chancellor, of course,” he answered, careful to watch his step.

Dean snorted. “I doubt it. What are you, an octogenarian? Never caught your birth year.”

Castiel smiled slyly. “Unlike you, I didn’t make the mistake of leaving that information in the database. Good luck finding out.”

“Agent Smith. Castiel.” They stopped in their tracks at the rickety voice—speaking of octogenarians. They turned around and there was Chancellor Shurley slowly making his way to the pair. Castiel beamed ( _that’s possible?_ Dean thought) at the chancellor and stepped forward to meet him in the middle.

“I mean Dr. Milton. I keep forgetting,” he shook his head with a small smile. “Are you assisting our dear agent in the case?”

Dean sidled on Castiel’s right. “Top of the morning, Dr. Shurley. Yes, he’s being a darling.” He smiled sideways at Castiel, which could easily be mistaken as scorn, but he hoped the chancellor didn’t catch the sarcasm. Castiel surely didn’t take notice to it. “It’s so good to see you out of your office, Dr. Shurley.”

The chancellor laughed. “Well, I’m not to become my own antique. Even though I am already a fossil.”

Castiel laughed quietly along with him, and Dean couldn’t help but notice how much easier it was to tolerate the professor if he smiled more often.

“Just a reminder, Dr. Milton, about the summer convention in Rome. They want you again. As they always do,” Dr. Shurley teased, eyes crinkled in mirth.

“Ah, I see. Of course. As always.” He nodded affirmatively.

“Jolly good. Well don’t let me keep you. Get to cracking on that case.”

They turned to leave after saying their goodbyes, but the chancellor caught the end of Dean’s sleeve at the last second. “He’s not that bad once you warm up to him, Dean.”

Guess he caught the sarcasm after all. Dean could swear that he saw the chancellor wink at him. _Nah, probably just blinked._

“What was that about?” Castiel asked once they exited the Fraser Building. “Huh? Oh, nothin’. Just wishing us luck. For the case,” he added hastily.

Castiel acknowledged his answer. “Well, let me just drop off my briefcase in my office. Then we can go interrogate this relative you found.”

“Nope, no time. This way.”

Dean had already turned when Castiel sighed waspishly. “How about this. Let’s just take my car instead. It’s near here.”

Castiel headed the opposite way Dean was marching to, ignoring the man’s directions. Dean saw Castiel’s back over his shoulder and dubiously followed. If he had been indisposed, then by the time they reached Castiel’s Lincoln Continental, Dean was thoroughly appalled.

“I wouldn’t be caught dead inside that.”

“Insulting a man’s car is incredibly rude, agent.”

“If it can be insulted, it deserves to be insulted.”

“You misquote,” said Castiel coolly. “‘If it can be destroyed by the truth, it deserves to be destroyed by the truth.’”

Dean grinned. “Case exactly in point, Carl Sagan.”

Castiel sighed. There can be no winning with this man, and frankly, Castiel didn’t have enough carbohydrates to argue. Although he was surprised that he was familiar with Carl Sagan.

“We are wasting valuable time. Can you just lead the way to your car?”

Castiel fully expected the ‘67 Impala waiting for Dean. When the man slid in the driver’s seat, he glided his hand across the dashboard appreciatively, saying to Castiel, “This is Baby. Had her the week she was born.”

To which Castiel replied, “I know.”

Dean cocked a brow at him but said nothing. The engine burst to life and Dean placed his hand on the clutch, aiming for _Drive._

“You’re not wearing your seatbelt.”

“It’s fine, professor.”

“Put on your seatbelt, Winchester.”

“I said it’s fine, Milt—”

“Dean Winchester, I am spending my last good glucose telling you to wear your goddamn seatbelt, and so help me I will throw your ass so far into the solar system, _you won’t be able to hitch a ride back_.”

Dean turned to face Castiel in incredulity. Who knew he could speak Dean? “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“My mother is dead, Winchester. I don’t kiss her with said mouth or otherwise.”

Dean shut his mouth. Instead, he wore his seatbelt and drove.

• • •

“Who is this relative of Bobby Singer?” Castiel asked after a few minutes of relative silence.

“Garth Fitzgerald IV. Born 1983 in Missouri. His maternal great-great-great uncle is Bobby. Mother died when he was 10 years old. Married and a father of one, currently residing in Wichita.”

“And what will we be asking exactly?”

“If he can provide us with any information regarding Bobby Singer, if there were tales or family history passed down that could help us with the case.”

“And if he said he could?”

Dean looked questioningly at him.

“If he said he could provide that information, what will you do then?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

A minute passed by, and Dean put on his trusty mixtape, blaring his favorite all-time bands before making a left.

“Winchester.”

“Hm?”

“Why did you turn left just now?”

“There’s a shortcut I know. We’ll get there in an hour tops.”

Castiel searched his head. He didn’t know of any shortcuts that led Lawrence to Wichita in that time frame.

After a while, Dean turned right then another right and they were back on the road they were before.

“Winchester.”

“What now?”

“Care to tell me how that was a shortcut?”

“All that matters is that we’re gonna damn well arrive there earlier than Google Maps’ ETA.”

But Castiel knew better.

“Is it because you were avoiding your childhood home?”

AC/DC blared on the stereo. Dean didn’t reply. He was focused on the road (that’s a first).

“I know for a fact that if you didn’t make that detour, we would’ve passed by the house you grew up in.”

“Drop it, Milton,” he gritted out. But Castiel was mostly oblivious to social cues like that. And mostly ignored them if he weren’t.

“Are you purposely avoiding your old home? Have you not seen nor visited it since 1940? What about your parents? Did you never visit them since you left?”

“Can you shut up for once!” he burst on impulse. “Just once! Is that too much to ask!”

Castiel looked curiously at him. But he relented and asked no further questions.

After a while, Dean drew a long breath and spoke up.

“1939.”

“What?”

“I left 1939. Not 1940.”

“Huh.”

They arrived at the Fitzgerald home after two hours. Castiel didn’t prod further about their travel time.

“Man, I’m starving. We should have eaten at a diner or something,” said Dean after exiting his car.

“Didn’t you eat something this morning?” Castiel asked as he closed the passenger’s door. “I did. Still hungry. Perpetually hungry.” Castiel rolled his eyes at that, and Dean stopped him by the pavement. “Wait. Don’t tell me you haven’t eaten anything today?”

“Okay, I won’t tell you,” Castiel said, and Dean was horrified.

“Dude, are you trying to kill yourself? We are going to fill you up with burgers on the way back. No nonsense about rabbit food or losing momentum.” Dean buttoned his suit jacket and they made their way to the front door. It was Castiel who rang the bell.

There was shuffling, and “get the door, honey!” and definitely some infantile crying.

The door opened to a blonde woman who seemed distressed, a patch of wetness staining her top. “Can I help you?”

Dean flashed his badge to the lady. “Dean Smith, FBI. This is my associate, Dr. Castiel Milton.”

Her brows crinkled in concern. “FBI? Is there something wrong?”

“Who is it, Bess?” a voice came from inside.

“We’re looking for Garth Fitzgerald IV regarding the stolen Silver Fragment.”

“Oh,” she said in recognition. “Of course, please come in.” She held the door open and let the two men enter.

“Honey, the FBI are here!” Bess called to the house. Castiel tried his best not to turn his nose up at the endearment. Surely a bee’s produce deserved more accolade.

A few moments later, a lanky brown-haired man emerged pushing a convertible highchair from what Dean assumed was the kitchen, to the living room where they were.

“Sorry, she wouldn’t calm down,” the man said anxiously, afraid that the baby would start her wailing again. But she seemed to be preoccupied with staring at the two new faces.

Bess went to help settle the chair immobile as Garth approached the men jovially, his previous anxious state shifting. “So, um, FBI, huh? What can I do for you?” He gestured for them to sit down on the sofa.

“Well, Mr. Fitzgerald, I’m sure you know that you’re the last remaining relative of Robert Singer. Aside from sweet cheeks over there.” Dean shot a finger gun at the baby and she cooed gleefully, clapping her hands together.

Garth and Bess laughed at the same time, while Castiel remained bewildered.

“Jenny already likes you,” Garth said fondly, gazing at his daughter before turning back to Dean. “And yes, that I am. Any progress finding Uncle Bobby’s soul piece?”

“Unfortunately, not yet. But my associate and I are here to ask you some questions that might help.” Castiel leaned forward attentively.

“Of course. Anything. Ask away.”

“Honey, I’m gonna take a shower first. Jenny’s puke stinks. Excuse me.” Bess patted Jenny’s small head before heading to the hall at the right, and Garth moved Jenny’s highchair nearer to the couch.

Castiel beat Dean in talking. “Are there any historical facts that your ancestors passed down onto you regarding Bobby Singer and/or his remaining soul remnant?”

Garth frowned in confusion. “Uhh.”

“What he means to say is that, were there any stories that you were told about anything related to Bobby or things soul? Something that could help us know if there are people out there who had grudges or whatnot? Anything ring a bell?”

Garth thought deeply while Jenny played with his hand. “Now that I think about it, my family’s been kinda divided about the whole soul scarcity thing. My mom used to tell me some stories when I was a kid. She died when I was 10 and my grandmother took me in.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dean and Castiel said at the same time. They looked at each other, Dean in surprise and Castiel in ‘what?’

They turned back to Garth and he nodded. “But yeah, my mom used to tell me about how her grandmother told her about Uncle Bobby. All nice things. From what I remember he was a grouchy man until he met Aunt Karen. They got married when she was on her deathbed because people were losing soul or somethin’ like that, but they never Soulshifted. Never knew why. Uncle Bobby couldn’t do nothin’ about it. She died, and Uncle Bobby was so heartbroken that he offered his last soul piece to—the earthquakes, I think? Yeah, and that’s that.”

Dean was jotting some notes on his pad— _when did he pull that out?_ Castiel thought—nodding his head every once in a while. “What about after?”

“After? I don’t really know much about after. . . Except maybe that one of his closest friends built a school around Uncle Bobby’s plant baby. And made his soul piece into an artifact.”

“Yes, Charles Shurley. The chancellor of the University of Kansas,” Castiel supplied.

Garth grimaced. “Yeah, right, him.”

Castiel tilted his head curiously. “You seem averse to the mention of Dr. Shurley?”

“Nah, man, I got no beef with Chuck. It’s just that, I don’t know,” he drew a breath. “Kinda hypocritical that his best friend sacrificed himself and he still went on living immortally.”

“He’s not anymore,” Castiel said immediately. “He was, but it took him a while to find his soulmate. Charlotte Shurley. I introduced them actually. But they’ve Soulshifted and Dr. Shurley appears like an 80-year-old geriatric now.” Castiel was oblivious to his rambling. Dean found it. . . Amusing? Nettling? He went with nettling.

“Well, good for him, I guess.” Garth rolled a shoulder.

“He has three children,” Castiel added and Dean had to gesture for him to stop.

“You sure there’s nothing more you can tell us?”

“No, sorry, agent.” He shook his head. “I think, though, I still have some old pictures. How about that?”

“That would be helpful, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“Please, call me Garth.” He waved his hand dismissively with a smile. “Here.” He stood up and went to the cabinets behind the couch, retrieving a cardboard box with both of his hands. He placed it on the coffee table and took off the lid, revealing a shit-ton of random old pictures juxtaposed against each other.

“It’s in here somewhere,” he said as he began to pick the photos by pile and spreading them all over the floor for a better view. It was then that Jenny started bawling.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Why you crying in front of federal agents?” Garth got up from his seat on the ground and went to pick the baby up into his arms, trying to soothe her. Dean could see the helplessness and anxiety seep back into the man’s features at Jenny’s piercing wails.

Dean stood up and took a skeptical step forward, startling Castiel. “I don’t mean to impose, but can I—?” He gestures to Jenny. “I used to babysit a lot.”

Garth looked at Dean and the baby back and forth, Jenny’s mouth still curved down in a cry. His face strained, he lifted Jenny up to Dean’s arms, and Dean took her in a measured dip. Jenny’s eyes peeked open at the shift and her caterwauling slowly diminished. “There ya go. You’re a cute wittle girl, aren’t you?”

Castiel’s mouth slightly opened, not sure what to make of the situation.

“You’re so good with her,” Garth praised, his tension leaving as he smiled at the now gurgling baby. Dean made faces at her and she began to babble, placing her wee fists on Dean’s cheek. “What can I say? Chicks dig me.”

Dean felt a kick to his ankle, and he swiveled to look at the scowling Castiel. _Ow_ , he mouthed to him, away from Garth’s view, but the man was already back on the floor, skimming the multitude of photographs.

 _Unprofessional_ , Castiel mouthed back, standing to take a closer view of the pictures. Dean rolled his eyes at the man and faced Jenny towards him.

“C’mon, professor, play with the good wittle baby.” Dean continued to make faces at Jenny and she burst into high-pitched giggles. Castiel didn’t dare to move closer.

“I’m not that fond of babies, and based on my experience, the feeling is mutual. No offense to you,” Castiel directed to Jenny and Garth, but Garth only chuckled. “None taken.”

But then Castiel’s eyes darted back ever so subtly at the cooing babe who had her arms up and flexing her wee fingers. Dean caught the curiosity and wariness that flashed ephemerally on the immortal’s face.

Dean regarded him thoughtfully. “Are you preemptively deciding that you don’t like babies because you’re scared of being rejected by them?”

Castiel looked at Dean with a start, his cool demeanor slipping. Even Garth’s shuffling seemed to stop for a second before resuming. “Wh-why on earth would you think that?” Castiel spluttered. Apparently, being caught off guard wasn’t his strong suit.

Dean smiled wryly. “Castiel James Milton, Ph.D., scared of babies.”

“I am not scared of infants. They’re small and puny.” Garth snickered. “Again, no offense,” Castiel griped. Garth held his hands up defensively. “None taken.”

Dean smirked at Castiel. “Then hold the baby, professor.”

Castiel glared at him, and Dean held his glare challengingly in return. When Jenny babbled and clapped her fists at Castiel, the shorter man’s brows unfurled infinitesimally. Castiel slowly let out a breath.

“What if she doesn’t want to be held?”

Dean’s shoulders relented at Castiel’s semi-admittance, and even Garth paused to watch the exchange, both in vigilance and curiosity. “Only one way to find out.”

Dean positioned himself closer to Castiel. “Come here,” he ordered, and it was the first time he saw Castiel look mortified. “This is a bad idea.”

Dean sighed and stepped forward once, and Castiel took long steps back in hopes to move away.

“Stop moving.” Castiel stilled out of dread, and he let himself be approached by Dean. Jenny was still clapping her hands and when she and Dean were close enough to Castiel, she halted and looked inquisitively up the dark-haired man.

“Let her decide if she likes you.”

Castiel seemed to cease breathing. As though every second was concentrated on Jenny and what her next action was.

A beat.

Then she reached her hand to Castiel and he offered his finger hesitantly.

Jenny held Castiel’s finger with both of her tiny hands and looked up at him, amazing Castiel at how shiny her eyes were and how her chubby cheeks were pink-tinged.

After a heavy few seconds, Jenny babbled excitedly and reached her arms to Castiel, and he felt as though he could breathe again. Even Dean seemed relieved. And Garth was grinning.

He offered Jenny to Castiel and he caught her by her armpits, poising her by his waist. She began to tug at his hair.

Castiel smiled softly. “I guess you aren’t so bad.”

“I got it!” Garth exclaimed, jumping up to his feet, lips still pulled into a smile as he took sight of Jenny and Castiel. “Look who found a new friend.”

“I admit she was challenging at first, but I think we came to an agreement at the end.” Castiel let the words slip out of his mouth before he realized that Garth was talking about Jenny. “I mean—”

“He rarely sees babies. Sorry.”

Castiel stepped towards the highchair to sit her down gently, and she cooed curiously at Castiel. He laughed silently, an unfamiliar affection waving across him as he gave her a pat on the head. “Thank you, Jenny.”

Garth extended a single, wrinkly photograph to Dean. “It’s just the one.” Castiel peered as Dean took it, and saw an old black-and-white image so old that it would fit in a museum. It could, actually.

There in the photo were three men, all looking prime and young. A man that resembled the humongous portrait in the Chamber of History on the left, a man similar to the cogent painting in the chancellor’s office in the middle but younger, and a black man already sporting a mustache on the right. They were in front of a truck with what looked like a dilapidated junkyard as the background.

“Who’s that man on the right?” Castiel was the one to ask, Dean pointing the man for him. “Oh, that’s Rufus Turner. Another best friend of Uncle Bobby. Not sure what happened to him, though.”

Dean nodded and offered him his card. “Don’t hesitate to call if you remember anything that might help.”

“Even if you might think it trivial,” Castiel added. Dean’s lips quirked. “Or if you need a babysitter.”

Garth laughed and nodded in affirmation. “Of course, gentlemen. Say bye to the nice FBI Agents, Jenny.”

He put his hand beside Jenny to wave and encouraged her to imitate. She waved unceremoniously and babbled away.

Castiel looked fondly at her. “Goodbye, Jenny. Pleasure making your acquaintance.”

“All right now, don’t go crying,” Dean teased as they let themselves out.

“I’m not crying.”

“Boohoo, you’re totally crying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some help for Castiel's lecture in Philosophy of Art from Laura D’Olimpio's (2015) article: “Living life as an artist: Nietzsche on creativity” at The Conversation; and John P.J. Pinel's (2014) book, “Biopsychology: Eighth Edition.”


	7. Chapter 6: Dissension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

Dean took an enormous bite out of his burger, earning a disbelieving look from Castiel. “How do you even fit that in your mouth?”

He caught the man’s eyes from across the table and swallowed. “I got a big mouth.” Castiel only shook his head, his plate of double-bacon cheeseburger with a side of chili fries still untouched. He looked at it as though it was speaking a foreign language.

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s not gonna eat itself.” Castiel sighed in resignation and took the burger in his hands, pausing to smell it first before sinking his teeth into the bun. 

They were still in Wichita, in a small joint called Ervin’s Diner. Dean spotted it on their way out of the city, and like the decent person he was, he made good on his promise to fill Castiel up with burgers.

Dean waited for his reaction expectantly as Castiel chewed with deliberation and swallowed. He held Dean’s stare, and took another bite just to make sure. And then coming to a conclusion, he breaks into a small smile, food still lodged between his cheeks. “This makes me very happy.”

Dean drew a staggered laugh, shaking his head at the man. “This is definitely on the top fifteen of my ‘Best Burgers’ list. And that’s a painstakingly-made list. Don’t tell me this is your first burger?”

Castiel shook his head, munching on some crispy bacon. “It’s not, but I haven’t eaten one since 1998. I’ve forgotten just how palatable it is.” Dean’s eyebrow quirked in question. “What happened in 1998?”

“Gabriel happened,” he sighed at the memory. “He thought it funny to give me a fake burger. The patty was artificially made of rubber and when I attempted to eat it, it spurted water down my throat.” Dean choked on his soda and began hacking. Castiel looked at him in reproach. “It was a very traumatic experience.”

Dean wheezed, trying to expel the laughter that overcame him. “Dude, that’s genius.”

“Not when you’re on the receiving end, it isn’t,” Castiel muttered, and Dean shrugged in admittance. “Still. How long’ve you known Gabriel?” Dean asked, having finished his burger and was now picking his fries and popping them into his mouth.

“I’ve known him since the day he was born,” Castiel confessed. Dean’s mouth parted a little as a fry in his hand fell to his lap. “Damn. That long?” Dean peered sideways to check if no one was looking and ate the fallen fry.

“I’ve known Chuck for longer,” he said, halfway through his meal. He indistinctly noticed how open his speech with Dean was. “I owe everything to him. He introduced me to Philosophy and taught me everything I know. He’s the reason I’m the man I am now.”

Dean took the last of his fries. “Hey, you don’t owe anyone who you are. People sometimes play a part in your life, but who you become—that one’s all you.” Castiel’s head tilted at Dean’s words, and this time Dean found it endearing. “What?”

“How very. . . existential,” he said pensively. “Existentialism holds that we possess the freedom and power to make choices, that we are not held down by our past, and that ultimately, we get to choose who we are. I’ve always had a proclivity for that perspective.  Though I do still discuss determinism with my students objectively. Give them the chance to decide what they want to believe.”

Dean would quip about his entering into ‘Professor Mode’ but he himself was struck. “You mean that lecture you had this morning—that essay you made them do—that wasn’t trying to get them think, I don’t know. . . cynical?”

Castiel chuckled silently and shook his head. “I see how it may seem that way. But no, I want them to view every perspective there is and let them choose. Maybe give them pros and cons to each one, but still allow them to have that autonomy.”

Dean’s brows were raised in soft surprise. “Huh.” He gazed at his empty plate and back up at the man in front of him. “That’s actually. . . really admirable.”

Castiel was stunned to hear a compliment fall from the man’s lips. “Um. Thank you.”

They both looked away from each other, awkward and unsure how they came to such a civil conversation. Dean cleared his throat and saw Castiel’s clean plate. “You know what, I’m gonna order another. You want another one? I’ll get you another one.” His eyes traveled from the table to the waitress, holding his hand up to get her attention.

“We’ll have another two of these, please.” The waitress replied, “Coming right up.”

“I’ve already eaten one. I don’t consume this much food,” said Castiel, and Dean shot him a sharp look. “Your last meal was 24 hours ago. You should really eat better.” When the food arrived, he pushed Castiel’s plate closer to him to exert his point. Castiel didn’t put up much of a fight, and instead took his second burger with renewed fervor.

“Was it true what you said? About babysitting?”

Dean replied muffledly, “Used to.” He swallowed before continuing, “My little brother, Sam. Back when we were still kids, Sammy and I used to be left alone at home all the time. Our parents were always busy with their jobs.” He rolled a shoulder. “When they’re not trying to rip each other a new one.”

Dean’s voice had dropped, and Castiel sensed the hint of quiet nostalgia. “Anyway, learned to take care of him on my own. It was okay, I guess. I babysat with every inch of my life, but anything for that little brother of mine. At least we were never left without pocket money. He grew up to be a successful lawyer so there’s that.”

Castiel looked at Dean—really looked at him. He was still fairly young-looking. Minimal wrinkles, a stubble that complemented his cropped light brown hair, and oh, freckles for days. His eyes, emerald as ever, were pulled in a careful stare, as though a montage replaying in his mind, and suddenly it was easier to picture Dean as a boy; all gangly limbs and delicate features. A picture of a doting brother: him taking care of a smaller sibling and watching said sibling grow up and grow old, but not loving him any less. If Castiel knew anything more familiar, it was loss.

He could even envision Dean so heartbroken, so anguished, having to bury his family while he remained unwarrantedly youthful—youthful yet so empty. Could he really—really _blame_ the man for trying to find something, anything to ease his pain, even going so far as to—

Castiel stopped that train of thought before it could materialize.

Dean was still the Vagabond.

No amount of justification was going to change that.

He hadn’t even noticed that they were both staring at each other. Castiel looked away briskly and devoured the last of his meal. His second one within the last thirty minutes. Huh, first time for everything.

Dean spotted the neglected two pieces of French fries on Castiel’s plate and swiped it before the man could protest. He put it in his mouth and munched obnoxiously, all the while flashing a big, stupid grin at the man. It nonplussed Castiel how the last time he saw that grin, Dean was hitting on him.

“Are you—?” Castiel took a sharp breath. “Are you trying to get me to fall in love with you?” It was a good thing that Dean had already swallowed the food, or else he would’ve started choking again. “What? Nah, man,” he said weakly. “I, uh. I decided that you aren’t my type.”

“Really?” Castiel arched a formidable brow. “And what is your type?”

Dean gulped. “You know, uh, perfect bod.” _Dark hair._ “Great sense of fashion.” _Ocean eyes._ “Not too smart.” _Eloquent and well-educated._ “Funny.” _Dry sense of humor._ “Intolerable, preferably.”

That last one slipped out and Dean knew it. “You just don’t fit the bill, man. Sorry.”

Castiel eyed him suspiciously, before lowering his gaze and shaking his head. Then he pulled out his wallet and took some bills, placing it on the table. “This is my half. I think we should go.”

Dean was caught off guard in the sudden shift in mood, hurrying to complete the tab and scrambled to follow the man already out the door.

Castiel was standing by the passenger’s door beside the Impala, hands in his coat pockets, waiting for Dean to unlock the car. Dean wanted to ask, but decided against it, sighing as they both slid inside Baby.

Suffice it to say, the ride back was tense.

“What did you mean when you said ‘intolerable’?” Castiel finally asked after an hour of uncomfortable silence. Dean darted his eyes to Castiel in recognition. “What d’you mean?”

“You clarified that I wasn’t your ‘type,’” Castiel said using air quotes. “But you also stated that your type is intolerable people. Do you mean to tell me that after this time, you’ve come to find me tolerable?”

Dean waned under Castiel’s scrutiny. “Did I say ‘intolerable’? I meant ‘tolerable.’”

Castiel scoffed indignantly. “Yes, that would make much more sense, wouldn’t it? If you could actually tolerate your victims?”

Dean’s knuckles grinded on the steering wheel. “What are you on about?” Castiel’s eyes narrowed at the man. “Are you telling me you’re _offended_ that you’re not my type?”

“No, Winchester,” he gritted. “This is about you and your unsavory lifestyle.”

“My _unsavory_ lifestyle? Seriously?”

“Have you ever even thought back about the people you’ve hurt? How much pain you caused them? I’ve read the stories. You come in a town, set your eyes on a potential victim, and leave once they’ve fallen into your trap. Do you even realize how _vile_ that is?”

Castiel roughly sank back into his seat and gripped the door panel at the acceleration Dean engendered on the gas pedal. They were definitely way past the highway speed limit.

“Not that it’s any of your business, _professor_ ,” he drawled, “But those people—people you say I hurt—they deserved it! They were horrible people! They were mean, stuck-up little brats that needed a reality check. So, yeah, maybe they did fall into my trap, maybe I did love ‘em and leave ‘em, but I’m telling ya—they got what was coming to them.” Dean heaved definitively. He had never put what he did into words, and hearing them out loud, coming from his own mouth no less, it did give him a vague sense of shame.

Castiel shook his head, resolve intact. “That’s no excuse to steal souls.”

“I didn’t steal their soul, Milton! They fell in love and willingly gave it up!”

“Under the false pretense that you loved them in return!” Castiel maintained.

Dean shot him a dangerous glance. “And what do you know about love, huh? You’ve never been in love yourself. How could you know?”

Castiel guffawed scornfully. “Are you expecting me to believe that you loved any of them? After leaving them once you got what you came for?”

“I’ve loved before, Milton. I’ve loved and I’ve lost, and I’m still human—”

Castiel cut him off. “You know what you are? You’re a nonofficial fugitive. You hide from the law, society. And you have no family.” That struck a nerve within Dean. “You are, and will always be a renegade, Winchester. It’s revolting.”

They fell into a tense silence after Castiel’s pronounced disgust, and the air between them reverberated with a severe energy.

“You don’t know me,” Dean said quietly.

And then Castiel delivered the finals words to their dissension: “And I’m glad that I don’t.”

• • •

Castiel was ambling up the stairs to his office with more impetus than usual. He couldn’t stop himself from shaking his head in disappointment at the escalation of events. And he couldn’t believe that he almost, _almost_ thought that Dean Winchester had a sliver of modesty in him.

He had been grumbling all the way from when Dean unspokenly dropped him off at Singer Hall and drove away in a streak, to when he arrived at the third floor. So when Jack spotted Castiel as he was about to knock on his office door, he arched his eyebrow quizzically. “Who are you talking to?”

Castiel felt some tension release from his shoulders, stopping by the top of the stairs. “Jack,” he smiled warmly, then walked forwards to catch his shoulder. “Uh, no one. I was talking to myself.”

Jack looked thoughtful, before transitioning into playful. “Oh, yeah? And who annoyed you enough to make you talk to yourself?”

Castiel rolled his eyes and shuffled the boy’s hair (“Hey!”). “Inside, Jack. Anything I can help you with?” He took his keys out and pushed the door open, letting Jack enter first before going in and heading straight to his chair with a sigh, laying his briefcase on the desk.

Jack took in Castiel’s disposition and remained standing, reluctant. “You look tired, Cas. Maybe you should get some rest first. I’ll just come back tomorrow.”

Castiel shook his head, positioning his forearms against the table’s side. “Nonsense. I’m fine and perfectly capable of rendering my services. Now what do you need?”

Jack laughed a little before taking his seat across Castiel. “Well, I just came from Uncle Gabe’s office. I had his help for the more discreet historical aspects, but I wanted to get some philosophical viewpoints from you. It really helps my essays.”

Jack Kline-Shurley, a freshman in History, was the son of Dr. Lucifer Shurley, whom everyone called Luke for obvious reasons (Castiel still didn’t know what Chuck was thinking when he named him after _that_ archangel), and Kelly Kline. It’s a funny story how they met. It actually had been at Gabriel and Rowena’s wedding. Kelly was an old classmate of Rowena, and they had a lasting friendship after college. When Lucifer, all moody and imperious because his youngest brother was getting married before him, spotted Kelly alone at a table, he did his best to charm her ass off. And it worked. They hit it off, and two weeks after, it was them that were pregnant and not the newlyweds.

Lucifer swore he just forgot to suit up. But they worked it out because when Kelly told Lucifer the news, they actually, believe it or not, Soulshifted. Everyone was astounded. They had thought that they would be having another immortal in their hands, but because of Kelly Kline, that nightmare could be finally put to sleep. And Lucifer was placated during those nine months—happy even. He had a soulmate who he married a month after Gabriel’s, and a son on the way. All were delighted that Lucifer had left his more than unpleasant attitude behind.

Until the day of Jack’s birth. Kelly died of complications. Instead of a celebration, they had to organize a funeral.

And then Lucifer reverted.

Lucifer didn’t neglect Jack, at first. He wanted to be a good father, but after a while he couldn’t take it anymore. The agony of losing a soulmate and having to look at the constant reminder every day. . . He regressed.

Jack’s childhood was spent in a roundabout from The Shurley’s, to Gabriel’s, to Castiel’s. They never let Jack feel alone and unloved, and eventually he learned to accept that his father was never going to look at him straight in the eye.

Imagine the uproar when Jack, graduating from high school, decided he wanted to become a History major. Lucifer was vying for him to follow his footsteps as a mathematician. He had always looked down on anything other than his own profession. But Jack’s heart was set on it, just as how his family taught him to follow his passion.

So even as Castiel was undoubtedly worn out from the day’s events, he had it in his spirit to smile at the young, blonde-haired man whom he had practically raised, genuine and fond. “And what is your essay about?”

“About the Cold War,” Jack replied. “More on political thought but you know I always like to add in a perspective or two.” He grinned, and Castiel chortled.

“Well, you know what I think would be complementary to a discussion of the Cold War? Ice cream.” He got up from his seat and Jack’s eyes followed him. “Come on. Let’s get your beloved nougat.”

Jack’s face lit up. He didn’t need to be told twice.

They took Castiel’s car, and they arrived at the nearest ice cream shop at Massachusetts St. within 10 minutes. It was a quaint, little parlor, and it served Jack’s favorite, so they had made it a habit to go there once a month.

They exchanged back and forth opinions and angles about the topic of Jack’s essay, asking here and there about Castiel’s area of expertise, all the while walking to the South Park Gazebo as they usually do. The weather was perfect, too.

When they had reached a wrought iron bench to sit on, Jack was halfway through his Snickers ice cream and Castiel was munching on his waffle cone. “So, got everything you needed?”

Jack lapped on the dripping liquid at the side of his cone. “I did, yes. Thank you, Cas,” he grinned boyishly at him, and Castiel can’t help but feel warmed. “You know, for everything.”

Castiel understood. “You’re welcome, Jack. It’s what family is for.”

Castiel saw the sort of tender brood that seeped into Jack’s feature at the sound of his words, albeit paltry. Castiel realized maybe that wasn’t the wisest response. So he sought to take it off Jack’s mind. “What will you be doing this summer?”

At that, Jack piped up. “Well, my friends did ask me to come with them to this two-week-long cabin retreat in Washington. But, I don’t think dad’s gonna let me go,” he lamented.

“Washington, wow,” Castiel breathed out. “That’s a long way from home. Where in Washington?”

“North Cove. Alex and Claire’s moms have a resthouse there. Kaia, Patience, and Clark already said yes.”

“Mills and Hanscum?” Jody Mills was the sheriff of Douglas County, with Donna Hanscum as her deputy. Castiel had been acquainted with them both during the PTA meeting at Jack’s high school where he’d first met Claire and Alex. He had come as Jack’s guardian because Lucifer was. . . busy with work. And Gabriel was out of town for a seminar.

They had seemed to be fairly good people, and Castiel was glad that Jack found friends he could rely on. “Yes,” Jack confirmed. “They’re coming, too. We’d be perfectly safe.”

Castiel caught his tone and immediately knew what the young man was aiming for. He chuckled. “What would be the mode of transportation?”

“A two-day drive, I think. It would be an awesome road trip,” he urged, a smile playing on his lips. And how could Castiel deny him? “I’ll talk to Gabriel about it.”

Jack hissed a ‘yes’ and beamed gleefully. “Thank you, Cas. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Castiel shook his head, tittering. “Just don’t lose your head, okay?”

Jack finished his snack with a crunch. “How about you? Any parties you’re going to?”

Castiel felt the snort in his brain. “Very funny. I’ll be going to Rome again, for the European Conference.” Jack nodded in understanding. “Well, don’t forget to eat in Rome. God knows you don’t eat enough here.”

“I eat fine, Jack. I’ve actually consumed two burgers just this afternoon.” Jack’s brows shot up his hairline. “Did Uncle Gabe tie you down and force it down your throat?”

Castiel cringed at the imagery. “No, actually. I was with Agent Smith, assisting him with the Silver Fragment case. He ordered one too many burgers.”

Jack turned ecstatic. “Really? Is that the one grandpa was talking about?”

“Yes. Um, FBI Agent Dean Smith. He’s—we’re trying to find anyone with a link.”

Jack bobbed his head in zest. “That’s so cool! You’ll find ‘em, Cas,” he assured, and Castiel hoped so, for the sake of his sanity.

They talked more, about the scenic sunset and then the bees when they spotted one on a nearby flower. Castiel was smug that he’d instilled that zeal in Jack. After a while when the sun had gone, they got up and walked back to the ice cream shop where Castiel’s car was parked, and he dropped off Jack at Lucifer’s house.

“Good night, Cas. Drive safe.”

The day ended well, Castiel believed. His spirits had lifted because of Jack, and the adverse occurrences rooted on one Dean Winchester were buried at the back of his mind. Arriving at his office, his plan was to pull an overnight shift to get started on his keynote speech for Rome.

When all of a sudden he was inundated with an excruciating pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated. :>
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://missbeansprout.tumblr.com), sexy people!


	8. Chapter 7: Fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

Baby was revving through the asphalt road, Dean impatiently tapping on the steering wheel. He shook his head, replaying the video footage over his head trying to make sense of it. Still, he couldn’t.

Perhaps that was why, despite their conspicuous _differences_ , he was on his way back to the university to consult with the bane of his existence disguised as a professor about some newly found evidence.

After dropping Castiel off this afternoon, he went straight to the Lawrence Police Department to inquire if anyone had come forth with recent information. When he arrived, he was greeted by a suspicious detective, Victor Henriksen, and a suspiciously effervescent secretary, Nancy Fitzgerald.

When Dean had introduced himself, he caught Det. Henriksen’s narrowed gaze though he tried to mask it. He was more than reluctant to share anything with Dean, but the rule-conscious side of him (and Nancy’s overzealous insistence on helping Dean) won and ceded a folder of multiple reports regarding an earthquake during the night of the theft. Those who relayed such statements firmly believed it had something to do with the Silver Fragment.

If Dean hadn’t acquainted himself with the thought before, he would’ve called bull.

Leaving the precinct and a strangely enthusiastic Nancy (“Come again soon, Agent Smith!” Dean had barely stopped himself from saying, “Let’s hope not.”) his phone had pinged, alerting him to an email from Charlie, with a file attachment labeled ‘might help with the case?’ It was the surveillance footage of the fifth floor. Watching it on the small screen of his phone and seeing a familiar face who claimed being home at the time of the incident, he bolted to his car and raced back to the university, not all consciously planning to consort with Castiel.

The sun had already departed when the Impala halted abruptly at the parking lot of Singer Hall. The roads were shrouded by a dark hue, and there were much fewer students around, those remaining talking rather loudly about their Friday plans and weekend agendas.

Dean got out of the car, beelining to Castiel’s building, when he stopped brusquely, realizing—

_Right. Castiel. That guy._

So instead of heading to the entrance doors, he very surreptitiously sidled at the left facet of the construction, peeking by the third floor to check if the lights in the first room were on.

It was.

He didn’t know if he felt relieved or dismayed.

He was halfway from being taken over by his pride and resorting to getting to the bottom of the footage all by his lonesome, when a searing pain ripped through his head as though someone with a katana or machete severed his crown.

“Fuck!” he growled, clutching his scalp in agony—his head surprisingly still intact—as he bent over. He suddenly caught the need to hold onto something sturdy and stable, and his eardrums were overwhelmed by a sharp ringing.

He’d have probably endured it, arched over at the corner of Singer Hall, murmuring “shit, shit, shit’s” under his breath, and so close to giving up to gravity and the severe spinning in his cranium.

But the picture of his dead parents flashed before his eyes.

He gasped at the intrusive image, stumbling backward and blindly grabbling the air for anything solid before he could hit the ground. He found the concrete wall of the building and roughly set his back onto it, focusing his weight on the surface, trying to blink his mother and father out of his vision.

But the more he scrambled to get it out, the more the picture subsisted. Then it wasn’t just them sitting together at the dinner table; it became shattering chinas and shouting and screaming at each other with young Dean and young Sammy on the verge of tears.

Then it was gone. Now it was a teenage Dean straddling his motorcycle and donning his helmet as he glimpsed back at his house—not home, but a house—as he kicked the engine to life. Every move a step away from the childhood he hated with a passion as a soft, familiar “go, Dean” reverberated in his mind.

Only the motorcycle wasn’t a motorcycle anymore. It had transformed into a hospital mattress, and Dean was no longer sprawled against metal, but against his best friend on his deathbed.

“I don’t—” a weak, breathy voice bombarded Dean, “regret nothin’—chief.”

The Dean in the hospital bowed his head to their entwined fingers, attempting to hide his desperation and misery. “Brothers always,” he whispered shakily to his best friend’s hands, and the man’s laugh came out as a feeble wheeze.

“Brothers,” was the last breath he took before the fragile grip he had on Dean’s hands faded into evanescence.

Dean let his shaking head fall back against the vibrating concrete, biting his quivering lip and unable to permit the tears to slip.

It was one thing to have the tenebrous moments of his existence play in his mind like a tape, another thing to have a tempestuous hurt take root in his skull, but it was an entirely different thing to have smothered emotions come springing back to life after centuries buried underwater with only a single, perpetual breath keeping it alive. And like a dam disintegrating, every memory flooded Dean once again in a paroxysm of his throes and mistakes.

They never really left. Only drowned.

The first tear that crawled down Dean’s face was every single bad echo he shoved from awareness amassed into a lonely drop. And it wasn’t him holding onto the side of a building for dear life, earthquake notwithstanding, but a sad, small boy facing every fault he made and watching it all in slow motion.

Dean cried out as the persistent throbbing violated him like a promise of torture, a sinister voice telling him how he failed as a child, as a friend, as a _brother_. . .

Which was true. He left everyone he had ever loved, either alone or dead.

_There is no soul in the world foolish enough to accept the real you._

_For you never let anyone know who you really are._

_You don’t even know who you are._

_You affect no one._

“No one,” he gasped, a bucket of cold water pouring through him like a wakening alarm, everything speeding up into a normal pace. Suddenly he could see his surroundings, palpably feel the trembling earth, and the hurt was bearable as his feet began groping the pavement trying to find the entrance of Singer Hall.

Somewhere in the scrambled eggs that was his mind and the wobble of the ground, the voice had reminded him that he wasn’t alone. It precipitated a long, stretched-out resonance that took Dean a while to realize was _Castiel_. It had been there, the moment the pain struck him, but he couldn’t hear it over the burning mirages.

Castiel. He was experiencing this, too.

He propelled up the stairs to the building as he held onto the rails, the blistering vertigo somewhat tolerable, but only waiting for Dean to slip and lose control in order to take hold of him again.

“Damn it,” he cursed when he tripped over the last step, regaining his stance immediately and staggering through the glass doors, bound for the stairs and valiantly ambling up despite the screech of gravity. When he reached the top that spread to the second floor, he barely gave the Chamber of History a glance as he sprinted to the next flight of stairs that would lead to Castiel’s office.

Usually, people ran out of buildings during earthquakes. Not in.

He drew to a standstill at the sight of an unhinged professor molded into the bannister as though his life depended on it. “Castiel,” he breathed, fighting to maintain his balance against nature’s behest that he fall. He grabbed the wooden handrail, willing his feet to carry him to the man who hadn’t even seemed to notice Dean’s presence.

“Milton!” called Dean, halfway up the steps, but Castiel still failed to hear. His eyes were screwed shut, and arms wrapped on the baluster the only thing keeping him from plummeting down the stairs.

“Castiel,” Dean barked again, reaching the man and catching him by his arm. “We gotta get outta here!”

Castiel’s eyes shot open, more from the touch than anything else. His watery gaze trailed to Dean but it was unfocused, as though he couldn’t really see him.

“Mom?” he croaked.

Dean felt his heart constrict, the scorch in his head threatening to break free, but he commanded it to shut the hell up.

He tightened his grip on Castiel. “It’s Dean. C’mon, we gotta go,” he yelled, but the man wasn’t fazed, a tear cascading down his cheek, eyes wide, blue, and grief-stricken. “I’m sorry, mom.”

Dean was helpless. “I’m not your mom, Cas—Castiel—Cas, I need you to listen!”

Castiel jerked at the name, eyes starting into attention and zeroing in on Dean.

“Winchester,” he recognized, brows knitted into a heavy frown. “What did you call me?”

Dean groaned inwardly. “We need to leave the building, Milton!” Castiel frantically looked around, as if he only just realized that an earthquake was occurring. Instead of answering, he grabbed Dean’s shoulder in return, heaving himself up the top stair and leaning his body to Dean. He seized his forehead and grumbled.

“You good?” asked Dean, checking him for injuries. Castiel only nodded as they descended, careful with their footing.

Reaching the floor landing, they tried to quicken their pace, but passing by the Chamber of History, it was Castiel who heeded the double-doors that were ajar.

“Winchester,” breathed Castiel, but it was lost to the cacophony of vibrations of the building. “Dean, look.” He pulled on the man, and Dean’s eyes darted to him, then to the door that Castiel was staring at. “What? Maybe it’s because of the frickin’ earthquake!”

Castiel wasn’t listening. He slowly untangled his finger from Dean and teetered to the entrance, pushing the right door agape.

Dean was indignant. “We don’t have time for this, Ca—”

The rest of the sentence was replaced with unadulterated disbelief.

At the end of the atrium of the Chamber of Secrets, what appeared like a star glistened in the middle, ethereal and inviting.

The tremors stopped.

The view disappeared in lieu of a self-closing door, the _click_ resounding in the corridor.

Dean and Castiel locked eyes in unspoken bewilderment before looking back at the large wooden door.

It was Castiel who advanced to the room first, holding the lever handle and crooking his wrist to open it. Dean made a disgruntled noise when Castiel entered impetuously without so much as confirming with him, apparently ignoring the ten-minute PTSD episode they had just experienced from the earthquake. Not to mention if it had weakened the infrastructure.

He exhaled sharply, catching the door before it fully shut and trailed after the man whose steps became hasty as he made it to the far end of the room. The doors snapped closed again as Dean flicked the light switches on, immersing the space in a soft illumination.

Castiel halted in his tracks a good ten feet away from the pedestal, Dean could see.

“Dean. It’s gone.”

He frowned at the man’s words and stalked to him, passing by the nooks of the museum, every inch closer a stark contrast to the prior luminescence that lit up Bobby Singer’s portrait like a focus spotlight.

He sidled up to Castiel, meeting his eyes before both of them walked further to the heart of the chamber, where the velvet cushion remained recessed and quite visibly—empty. There were no signs of any change, not a thing out of place (except for the soul remnant, obviously), and Bobby was still judging everyone within range.

Castiel drew a long sigh as he went to the frontmost area of the sanctum. “I don’t understand. Could we have just. . . imagined it?”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t know.” He glared at the pillar as though it personally offended him. “I don’t know. Maybe. My head still feels like it’s been blended to a salsa, so, I don’t know. Could be.”

Castiel glanced at the man at his reply, the previous events emerging to consciousness. “You, uh,” he pursed his lips. “You came for me? When the earthquake—?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, I was, uh. I was in the neighborhood.”

“You went back?”

“I was—” The reason he returned to the university dawned back to him. “Charlie recovered the footage. Your friend’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

Castiel cocked his head in confusion. “Whom are you referring to? Gabriel?”

“Balthazar. He was in this very building the hour of the theft. Funny how you and your friends tend to do something and tell the police otherwise,” he recounted, already pulling his phone and bringing up the file to show Castiel. The man’s head shook in repudiation. “Improbable. Balthazar would never—he couldn’t—”

Dean shoved the phone to him, and there he saw the fifth floor of Singer Hall, vacant at first, but a movement appeared. A hand suddenly popped in the tiny screen by the sill, pushing open the window at the end of the corridor. Castiel’s eyebrows crept upward as he recognized Balthazar, in scruffy sleep clothes, emerging from the aperture, basically crawling into the hallway and landing unceremoniously. He stood up straight, his stare vacuous, as he ambled to the nearest door and attempted to pry it open. When it didn’t budge, he abandoned it, stiffly moving to the next door and doing the same. After trying all the doors and failing, he disappeared to the stairs. The video ended there.

“Charlie’s working on the next footage. Hopefully the fourth floor’s,” Dean said as Castiel grabbed the phone from him, replaying it as if it would come out different the second time. “Face it, Cas. You’re friend lied. He climbed up Singer Hall through the old stair treads at the back by the windows. Creepily enough, he has the perfect opportunity to go to the Chamber of History, snitch the soul piece, and exit through any other floor.”

Castiel peered swiftly at Dean through his lashes at the sound of the sobriquet, but let it slide easily. “That wouldn’t make sense. Why go to the fifth floor in the first place? Why not directly enter the second floor? And why did he have to fumble with the doors?”

“All relevant questions that Dr. Roché needs to answer. Now let’s get outta here. We don’t know how much damage that earthquake did.” He turned in his place and headed to egress, Castiel following reluctantly with the phone still in his hand.

“Dean.”

The man spun around, a palm held up in question, completely missing their now first-name basis. Apparently, life-threatening events made you use someone’s given name. Castiel worried his bottom lip as he drew the phone away from his face and looked at Dean.

“Balthazar has been telling me about his sleeping problems for a while now. I thought it was an issue with nonrestorative sleep, but seeing this, it might be actually somnambulism.”

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again.

“You think Balthazar’s sleepwalking?”

Castiel glimpsed at the surveillance again. “Yes. That must be what’s ailing him. In the state of his clothes, it looks like he walked from his apartment to the school. We need to help him. Climbing buildings while fast asleep is quite perilous.”

Dean’s brow rose, sighing tersely, and taking the phone from Castiel’s grip. “Whatever we need to do, we need to do it now. I ain’t letting a potential suspect off the hook.” He whirled around and aimed for the exit again.

“You’re being unreasonable. He’s unaware that he’s been roaming around unconsciously. I think he warrants a little more doubt than that,” Castiel argued, coming up behind Dean as he tried to work the door open.

Dean pulled on the black lever persistently, but it wouldn’t turn, only producing a jarring metal noise. “What is the hold up?” asked Castiel, looking over Dean’s shoulder to see what was happening. But Dean only swiveled to gape at the man in mortification.

“It’s locked.”

• • •

“What do you mean ‘it’s locked?’” Castiel shouldered Dean, trying the handle for himself but also coming up empty. “No, no, this cannot be happening,” he mumbled under his breath as Dean’s palms covered his face in exasperation.

“How can it be locked? We just came in here not fifteen minutes ago!” ranted Dean, Castiel giving up on the lever and resting his head on the door that bolted from both sides. “Maybe security was locking up. I can’t tell. Nothing seems to be black and white right now,” he sighed.

“We can’t be locked in here!” exclaimed Dean, hands coming up to his hair. “We—you and I’ll go crazy! Either crazy or dead or a murderer.” Castiel didn’t reply, remembering the last time they went bonkers on each other. Funnily enough, it was just this afternoon. Whatever Dean was. . . he came to help him. Castiel couldn’t deny that.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, and he began pounding against the wooden panel, Castiel stumbling out of his way. “Is anybody there! We’ve been locked in!” he bellowed against the door, the repeated banging echoing in the expanse of the room. “Hello! We need help!”

“Whoever was in the building has probably evacuated, Dean,” Castiel quietly surmised, and Dean let his forehead touch the varnished timber for a while before curtly grabbing his wallet from his suit jacket and pulling out a credit card, kneeling to level his gaze at the lockset. He inserted the card in the groove between the two doors and prodded it harriedly.

Castiel looked down at his shoes. “That is not going to work.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Castiel exhaled defeatedly. “Your method isn’t going to accomplish anything because it’s not a standard knob. It’s a deadbolt latch.”

Dean ceased his ministrations and met Castiel’s eyes. “Well, thanks for the input.” He returned his credit card to his wallet and instead pulled out a felt roll-up, revealing a lock pick set. He removed two and began working on the keyhole.

Castiel was careful not to further frustrate the man. “Dean, this is the Chamber of History. Did you really think it would be that easy to pick its lock?”

“Then how come the soul piece was so easily stolen, huh!” he rebuked, a familiar steam traveling in his veins.

So much for treading lightly.

Dean sighed. “I guess it can’t get any worse than this.” And like clockwork, the lights went out, swathing Castiel and Dean in darkness.

“Shit. I spoke too soon,” Castiel heard a voice near him say. He could see nothing but utter blackness, until a small glow appeared beside him, giving off a meager luminescence to Dean’s face. Then a ray of light shot from the back of Dean’s phone to the door.

Castiel could now see a fraction of the room from the flashlight, while Dean squinted at his phone in vexation. “I got no bars. Where’s your phone?” He began feeling his pockets in his coat and pants but— “I left it in my office.”

Dean groaned, letting his head loll back. “Great. Just great.” Dean began grousing under his breath, tucking the lock picks back into the felt with his one hand holding up his mobile. The situation was more than inopportune, but Castiel felt like he needed to say something.

He breathed sharply, speaking on impulse before he could convince himself out of it. “Dean?”

He grunted in response.

“I wanted to say I’m—ah!”

But he fell to the floor again with a thud, the impact nothing compared to the maiming inside his head. He clasped his temples as though they would wash away the pain. He saw his mother once again, even as his eyes were stapled shut. She was crying, the poor thing, lying on a cold hospital bed with Castiel rooted in the corner, unable to meet her glossy moss eyes.

“Please come here, honey,” her mother rasped, and Castiel fiercely shook his head. It was what she had said. That was what she always said, in Castiel’s dreams, in vacant headspaces, in the back of his mind.

Always.

_Please come here, honey._

And he never did.

Instead of heeding his mother’s words, he tore through the exit, the hurt dripping down his chin as his chest ruptured in the corner of the hallway and he huddled himself.

Anna Milton suffered from a blood cancer. She had been diagnosed during Castiel’s first year in university, and it was all downhill from there. Doctors told them they estimated one year left, but she fought valiantly for almost three years. Her condition though deteriorated rapidly within the last month, and everyone was telling Castiel to “stay strong.”

But he couldn’t. He never knew where his mother derived her courage, but Castiel was adamant he hadn’t inherited it.

Because every _please come here, honey_ had never elicited acquiescence from him.

He sobbed into his knees for what felt like forever before a touch to his arm startled him.

“Mom?” It was a nurse wearing a soft, doleful expression. Why did she look doleful?

“I’m sorry, sweetie. We tried everything we could. Your mom. . .”

Castiel gasped brokenly, clambering to his feet and hurtling back to the private room as fast as his feet could take him. Stopping abrasively against the doorway, a man in a white coat was folding a blanket over his mother’s face.

“No,” he whispered, a hand coming up to his mouth, an endless amount of salty wetness pouring through him like an unattended faucet. “Mom!” he cried in anguish, this time finally coming to her side and ripping the cloth off. Her mother’s pallid face lied still, eyelids closed.

Dead.

“I’m sorry. The time of death was 23:21.”

There was a surreal, distant crash of glass.

“No,” he sobbed, taking her cooling hands into his, “I’m here now, mom. Please, please don’t leave me.”

He only ever came when it was too late.

His mother had to die thinking her only son resented her.

He cried into her fingers, drenching them with tears. “I’m sorry, mom.”

_Please come here, honey._

That was what continued to haunt him.

How he never went to her.

It was always that.

It was what always reverberated in his head whenever an earthquake occurred, and during stressful nights, and sometimes when he was left to his own devices.

_Please come here, honey._

It rang in his ears, over and over, causing not only a lacerating pain in his skull, but an unfathomable, dismal ache in his chest.

It was like losing her again and again and again.

It was always the same memory on a loop.

_Please come here, honey._

He never did.

He never went to his mother, so where are the arms cradling him coming from?

_Please come here, honey. . ._

“Hey, I’m here, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated. I'd like to know your thoughts. :>
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://missbeansprout.tumblr.com)!


	9. Chapter 8: Chamber of History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Also, this is twice as long as my average chapter length, lol. I suck.

There was a shattering of glass, distant and illusive. Dean almost didn’t hear it over the cries of his baby brother, hugging him tautly by his middle as John and Mary’s fight reverberated overhead like a stereo. Dean tried soothing Sam, but he himself already had tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. How could he help him when he couldn’t even help himself?

The broken glass didn’t shake him, but the following voice did. “No!” it shouted, sounding oddly familiar. . .

Cas?

Dean grabbed at his head, trying to jostle the memories away. Opening his eyes, he no longer saw his family, but a very dim room. He fought his brain trying to burst out of its home to find his fallen phone. When he felt it by his feet, he grappled at it and directed the light to the room, descrying a crumpled heap of trench coat on the floor, curled on itself in fetal position with its back trembling in terror.

Dean groaned as he pulled himself up slightly, willing his head to a doubtful quiescence, crawling to Castiel despite the floor’s precarious swaying. He reached his hand to his back, going around to face the man. “Cas?”

Castiel had his palms to his face, but Dean could hear his cries beneath his hands. “I’m sorry, mom,” he barely heard him weep, and Dean’s heart ached for him, even more than the ache in his head.

He was all too familiar with regret.

Dean placed his hands on Castiel’s arm, attempting to judder him into awareness. When Castiel didn’t respond to his touch, he resorted to pulling Castiel into his arms for a semblance of comfort, but found the position quite awkward. He flashed his phone around and saw the nearest wall. Dean wiggled towards it, towing Castiel with him, and he stowed his back onto the concrete. Castiel was heavier than he expected, but he dragged him by his arms and carefully laid the man’s head on his lap as he continued to keen, so that the back of Castiel’s head faced Dean’s stomach.

Castiel’s body was still coiled, and he was still shuddering, as Dean ran his hand up and down his back in what he hoped was a palliative manner, then leaned forward.

“Hey,” he whispered delicately in his ear, a paradox to his internal war, “I’m here, Cas.”

They stayed there for what felt like hours—with Dean trying to temper his and Castiel’s pain, until the haphazard oscillation of the floor subsided and eventually came to a halt. The moment it did, Castiel stirred in his position, surfacing into recognition. His palms withdrew from his face, finding the place dark with only sparse lighting enabling him to see that he was still in the Chamber of History. When he detected wetness on his palms, he hurriedly wiped his face before it dawned on him that he was laying on someone.

Dean’s hand fell away from his back as Castiel shot up straight, whirling around to see the man exhaustedly reposed on the wall, the other hand on the phone giving off the only illumination. Dean’s head quirked at Castiel’s widened eyes. “I don’t know about you, but after that run-in with nature’s fury, I feel like I can sleep for a week.”

“Dean, you—I’m ahh—I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—” he stammered, embarrassed and still a little muzzy. But Dean shook his head. “Whatcha talking about? I wanted you on my lap.”

He probably didn’t articulate that right. Sighing, he let his eyelids droop to a close. “You looked like you needed some calming. Not that it helped. I probably didn’t do jack.”

Castiel exhaled through his parted mouth. _Hey, I’m here, Cas_ resonated mellifluously in his ears, he might have thought Dean had spoken it in real-time. But no, both his eyes and lips were shut.

Did it hurt that Castiel found Dean’s words more assuaging than he expected?

Castiel was at an impasse. There were few moments in his life where he hadn’t known what to do next, no contingency plan, probably could be counted on his fingers, but this was definitely on top of that list.

Perhaps it was a good thing that Dean sensed his unease through his half-opened eye and consequently patted the space of linoleum beside him, urging Castiel to take it. When he registered the gesture, his eyes flitted to Dean’s, questioning and dewy. Dean nodded his head to the spot with a lopsided smile.

Eventually, Castiel acceded. His head slumped a little, as he rose to his knees and meandered haphazardly beside Dean, descending with an ‘oomph,’ as Dean stationed his phone upright to his other side. Castiel breathed a sigh of enervation and crossed his hands by his stomach, and Dean thought _Same._

“Well, that was the fastest aftershock known to man,” declared Dean and Castiel bowed his chin to his chest defeatedly.

“The earthquakes are getting worse. This one felt so debilitating. The last time I could still walk. Tonight, you’ve witnessed me in my most impotent form.” Castiel turned away. “I am sorry you had to see that.”

“What? No, you don’t gotta say sorry, man. Anyone would’ve broken down if they had to see the worst memories of their lives—and we have particularly long ones.” Dean huffed a small laugh, and Castiel slowly directed his gaze back to the man, even though he barely saw him in the dark.

Castiel pursed his lips before replying. “That, we do.”

They sat in silence for a while, unable to maintain an appropriate subject. And also, Castiel was still ashamed as hell. But he couldn’t deny what the immortal deserved. “I wanted— _want_ to thank you, Dean. For coming back to find me, and retrieving me from the staircase, and for. . . for helping me in my unfortunate reaction to the earthquake.”

If Dean wasn’t bone-tired and head screwed nine ways to Sunday, he’d have probably joked about it; teased Castiel for sounding so couth that would subsequently only turn into a fight. But he was. So instead he rolled a shoulder that didn’t quite seem as nonchalant as he intended it to be. “Guess you owe me one.”

After that, the air lifted a little, and some intangible barrier between them cracked open, little by little, grit by grit.

“You okay now?” asked Dean cautiously, and he was about to can it for asking such a ridiculous question, but Castiel actually looked like he was contemplating the answer.

“The throbbing has diminished, and I no longer see any visions, but I do still feel a bit disconcerted. Nothing I wouldn’t be able to handle.” He worried his bottom lip as he glanced at Dean. “How about you?”

Dean shrugged. “Same as you. Hoping for no more aftershocks in the near future. Not sure I’d be able to, you know.” He gulped. “Handle another one.”

Castiel nodded imperceptibly. “But you managed it visibly better than me. You charged in a trembling building for me.” His eyes widened weakly at his own words. “I mean—what I meant was—you saved me. I mean you tried to save me. You went for me. You helped—me.” Castiel grew panicky at his failure to find proper, non-dramatic words to convey his message, but Dean only chuckled.

“Take it easy, Cas. Don’t hurt yourself.” Though there was no heat in his words, and Castiel took them as such, ignoring the way the nickname slid smoothly from Dean’s lips.

“How did you do it, Dean?” Castiel let his curiosity take hold of him. “Was it not as intense as mine, that you had the strength to climb up the staircase to find me?”

Dean didn’t respond at first, biting the inside of his cheek.

“It was horrible, actually. A bigger pain in my ass than you,” he chided with a smile, before it fell into a frown. “Saw some things I haven’t thought about in years. Things I thought weren’t real anymore because of how long ago they were.” Dean grimaced. “Boy, was I wrong.”

Castiel felt a rush of empathy toward him, to his hurt, and then one of gratitude, the mistrust seeping out of his skin even though he wasn’t entirely sure why. His eyes stared straight at the scarcely lit hall.

“The first time I experienced an earthquake, it was during a class of mine. The period was about to end when I noticed the table was shaking just as I felt a wave of vertigo overcome me. I saw flashes of my mother, dying, then myself at a hospital corridor, but all the while I could hear my students clambering to evacuate the room. I couldn’t move, but I still had some degree of cognizance during the occurrence.”

Castiel’s head hit the wall with a dull thud. “That was three earthquakes ago. I would hate to know what would become of me the next time another strikes.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your mom, Cas.” Dean bit his lip as he continued. “Have you told anyone how the quakes affect you?”

Castiel shook his head, eyelids sealing. “I wouldn’t want to cause alarm.”

“But it’s getting worse. What if something really bad happens? What if you. . . I’m just saying. Someone—anyone—they should know.”

Castiel peered sideways at Dean, catching the concerned expression on his face before looking away.

Dean huffed a little. “There are people who care about you, Cas,” he said, maybe even a little bitterly. “They deserve to know.”

At Dean’s tone, Castiel faced him, suddenly agog.

“Is there no one that you confide in, Dean? Someone you keep in contact with if anything adverse happens?” He didn’t mean for it to sound condescending. He winced at his words, but Dean seemed to understand.

“I have a few. But Charlie’s mostly my confidante and girl Friday.”

“That’s good.” Castiel nodded, relieved that Dean wasn’t so alone after all. Nonetheless, it must be hard to be a wanderer, with no home to return to. Castiel had been blessed enough to have the Shurley’s as a family of his own.

He replaced his head back onto the solid concrete. “What time is it?” Dean checked his phone before returning it to its previous position, but not before making out that he still had no service. “8:56.”

Castiel blew a raspberry. “It’s going to be a long night. The staff usually comes by around 7 a.m.”

“Well, let’s hope we’re still alive by then.” Dean laughed, an attempt at humor, but it only sounded sardonic, and Castiel pulled a face in remembering their car argument.

“Dean, I. . .” he began, the man directing his head to him. “I know I said some things. . . Some hurtful things to you. And I’m sorry. It’s not right for me to judge you, especially as I don’t wholly know you. When you came into town, I admit I felt threatened by your strangeness and unfamiliarity, not to mention your immortality, but it had stirred old mechanisms and behaviors in me. That was unfair. For that, I apologize.”

Dean’s astonished stare locked onto Castiel, the cerulean somehow standing out in the dimness, and he almost forgot to reply. “Uh. Appreciate that.”

The barrier ruptured further.

They fell quiet for a moment, and it was Dean who broke the hush. “So. . .” he trailed off, interrupting Castiel’s fidgeting with the hem of his trench. “Got any ideas why nature’s trying to kill us?”

“Well, while I believe that being an immortal is a defining factor to our shared reactions, I am still confounded as to why earthquakes suddenly bombarded Lawrence.” He shook his head. “I’ve lived here for eight decades and this is the first one since the 20th century.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “80 years? Weren’t you born in Ohio?”

“Yes, I was. I only traversed to Kansas after my mother passed away.”

“Hold up, dude,” he demanded, head swimming in discombobulation, “How old _are_ you?”

Castiel smiled wryly at him.

“I’m a hundred and one, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes could have bulged out of its sockets, his jaw dropping to the floor.

“A hundred and fucking one?!” he spluttered, disbelief coloring his face as Castiel smirked at him.

“Yes. I was born in 1917—four years before you were.”

Dean was reeling, attempting to hide his pathetic response to Castiel’s revelation. Instead of dwelling on it, he hoped to unearth the becoming enigma that was Castiel, veering, “Why Lawrence, then?”

He gave Dean a melancholy smile. “I’m not entirely sure. My father died when I was still a toddler, and then my mother followed, having been diagnosed with leukaemia when I was attending university as a journalism major.”

It still hurt him to talk about it, but taking a deep breath, he barreled on. “After her death. . . I was lost. She was the most important person in my life. I left and found myself in a bus headed to Kansas. I. . . I’ve always felt drawn here.”

He paused, and Dean remained silent as an urge for him to continue. Castiel shook his head at his reverie. “Chuck found me wandering by the campus in a trance. I hadn’t eaten for two days, so he brought me to a nearby café and treated me to two whole meals. I still don’t know what he saw in me, but he helped me put my life back together. He gave me accommodations at a small motel, made sure I adequately ate. Then he introduced me to the world of philosophy, and I fell in love with it just as he. When I told him I wanted to pursue it as a major, he took care of everything from my transfer credentials from Ohio State, to my financial aid, to my dormitory.”

Castiel met Dean’s eyes. “Like I told you, I owe him everything. He gave me a home, a family, and a career that helped me gain worldwide recognition. I am eternally grateful.”

Dean didn’t know the extent of the Chuck’s role in Castiel’ life. Knowing what he did for him, it augmented the sense of respect he had for the chancellor.

He bumped his shoulder to Castiel’s lightly. “Give yourself a little credit, Cas. All your sleepless nights and hard work: you did that. You brought yourself that success.” He shrugged. “With some help.”

The man looked to his lap, but Dean already caught sight of the small smile playing on his lips.

Dean stretched a little on his seat and tilted his head. “Holy shit, I still can’t believe you’re a century old. Didn’t think you were older than me. I didn’t think anyone was older than me ‘til I found out about Dr. Shurley.”

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you.” Castiel smirked at him, and Dean chortled in reply, a question beginning to burn on his tongue.

“So. . . You’ve never, um, like been with anyone before? In your century of existence?” he pried, the thought still seeming ridiculous in his mind. How can anyone, in a soul-oriented world, not have given a piece of his soul and accepted one in turn? Maybe he was aromantic.

“No, I haven’t. I’ve never really expressed romantic interest in other people. Really, I find them tedious. At least, I used to. Being an educator and having decades upon decades stacked upon you really alters your perspective.” Castiel started fiddling with his fingers as he talked. “I may be more open than I had been, but I still have not felt any attraction to anyone as of yet.”

Dean nodded slowly, hesitant. “As of yet, right. So you’ve never. . .” he trailed off.

“Never what?” prompted Castiel.

“You know.”

“What?”

“Had sex.”

“Oh. No. I have not.”

Dean nodded his head a little faster than usual. “Well, no judgment here either.”

Castiel smiled in thankfulness, and Dean shot him a playful grin.

“So how does it feel to live a hundred years and still be a virgin?” Castiel rolled his eyes at that, but the heat that usually accompanied their banter was truant, and he wasn’t sure that he missed it at all. It was now replaced by a vague sense of comfort, of levity. Castiel didn’t want to admit that he liked it.

A few exchanges later, Dean and Castiel got to talking about Castiel’s involvement in soul topics, how he first entered the field. “Our knowledge of souls is hitherto still limited. It was curiosity at first that brought me to its threshold, but as the years passed, it became the determination. The sheer demand of my circumstance. Less curious, more obliged.

“I like to think I’m a prolific writer because of my father. He was also an author, you see, and a strong believer of the occult. When he died due to an unfortunate vehicular accident, a novel of his was published posthumously. ‘Extramundus’ was the title.” Castiel half-expected Dean to bob his head in a way that would give away his dispassion, but he seemed genuinely interested in Castiel’s tales.

“What’s it mean?” Dean prodded.

“It’s Latin for ‘supernatural,’” elucidated Castiel. “It’s actually a serial but the publisher only agreed to a single book.”

He hummed in response. “I’m sure he’d be hella proud of what you went on to become.”

Castiel bit the smile before it fully grew.

“What are you working on these days, then, professor?” Castiel scrutinized Dean’s tone, wondering if he was asking out of authenticity or if he was merely looking for ways to pass the time. He hedged a glance at him, studying his expression and found nothing but openness.

He gulped. “Uhm. Well, lately I’ve been tinkering in the development of the soul in the human lifespan. You’d think we’d know by now the works and makings of a soul, but really, we haven’t scratched the surface. I estimate only 10% of all soul knowledge to be deciphered, and I do believe the study of its maturation could be a fundamental element.”

Castiel found himself huffing at the irony. “I was actually supposed to start working on my keynote address tonight for the European Conference when the earthquake struck. Every time I’m invited to speak, I would always tackle the role of soul in philosophy. Or of philosophy in soul.”

Dean absorbed Castiel’s words attentively, lips quirking at the corner, unable to suppress the urge of his signature flippancy. “Nerd.”

This time Castiel laughed, and his shoulders moved with him, so it would seem, from what Dean could discern in the goddamn low lighting they’re struggling with.

The sound was warm to Dean’s ears, and he felt his breath catch at the simplicity of their happenstance, until Castiel calmed but kept his smile on.

Castiel tilted his head at Dean, and he incontestably did not find it endearing.

Geez, they were just at the cusp of a civilized relationship, _give me a break_ , Dean thought.

It took Dean a second before realizing that Castiel had said something.

“Sorry, what?” said Dean dumbly.

“I asked if I could run some questions and ideas by you?” Dean’s brows lifted in surprise. He didn’t think he was qualified nor credible enough to be helpful to Castiel’s research.

He scratched his head cloddishly. “Uhh, yeah, sure. Why not? We got the time. Don’t think I’ll be able to help you much, though. I don’t know nothing about academics. Never went to college. That was my brother, Sammy. Got himself a law degree, the nerd. You two would get along,” he rambled, stopping himself when he realized his own lumbering. “I told you that already. Sorry. Yeah, go ahead.”

Castiel smiled, not unkindly. “The absence of a degree does not make you are a lesser being, Dean.”

Dean shrugged, feigning insouciance at the man’s words. “Question. Shoot.”

“Okay. How about. . . Since I’m still studying the characteristics, how many times have you given a piece of your soul?”

Oh, wow. How was Dean gonna put this. . .

“Give or take 20 times?”

It was Castiel’s turn to be windswept. Quite aggressively.

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

His mouth parted in shock. “You fell in love 20 times?”

“I didn’t give a piece a person. Sometimes it’s multiple pieces in multiple times to a single one.”

Castiel huffed in incredulity, brows still hung on his hairline.

“Do you know what this means? This. . . This changes everything! Everything we know about souls. A person can decouple his soul only so many times—five times in a lifetime, on average. And you’re telling me—that all of our research and findings have been inaccurate.”

Dean raised his hands in abnegation. “Hey, I’m not telling you what is and what’s not. I’m just answering your question.”

“I can’t believe this. . . I—I thought you didn’t care for your vic—your partners.”

“Hey, what happened to no judging?”

Castiel deflated at that, his ardor ebbing. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he said apologetically, head bowing. Dean perceived the genuineness and sighed.

“The last time I gave one was in the 80s, anyway. And the 40s before that.”

Castiel took the information in stride this time. “Then most of your soul-giving must have started and revolved during the normal adulthood. That’s good. At least we had something right.”

“What d’ya mean ‘started’ in adulthood? Kids give soul pieces, too, right?” Dean queried, suddenly nervous.

Castiel shook his head, face shifting to amusement. “No one’s parted with a soul piece before they’ve turned 18, Dean. If there were, they’d probably amount to a number you can count on one hand.”

That’s. . . chilling. What kind of person does this make Dean?

“I gave my soul three times before I was 18,” he spoke quietly, rendering Castiel stunned. How many more disavowals was Dean going to give him tonight?

He was about to reply when Dean continued. “One when I was 6, one when I was 10, and another one at 16. The next was at 19.”

Castiel sealed his open mouth with a tick. He truly thought he had Dean Winchester figured out. But the more he’s giving it time, the more layers he’s peeling off him. And for the first time, what he saw was not displeasing.

Why he isn’t displeased, though, that’s the question.

“That’s. . . quite extraordinary, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes avoided Castiel’s eyes coyly.

“Do you have a theory as to why you’re so. . . Well—soul-giving?”

Dean breathed sharply through his mouth at the implication that this was giving a bad color to him in Castiel’s eyes. “I don’t know, Cas. Don’t care,” he muttered.

Castiel searched for Dean’s elusive gaze, trying to convey his sincere nonjudgmental stance. “I think you do, Dean.”

Quiet blanketed the room, Dean unresponding.

“But that’s all right. It’s human to be curious. To be concerned. To care.”

Dean still didn’t reply, dodging Castiel’s eyes, and Castiel fell disheartened. “Maybe that’s a story for another time.”

The man’s head turned over, battling whether or not to disclose such personal information about himself. Nobody really knew much about him, why he does what he does. Not even Charlie. But something so enticing about Castiel made Dean want to pour his soul—figuratively, of course—onto the man and let it run like a waterfall.

Strengthening his resolve, he made up his mind. Whatever holding him back be damned.

“I was always so. . .” Dean spoke up slowly, meeting his eyes and rolling a shoulder. “I don’t know—different, I guess.”

Castiel perked up at his choice of words.

_Different._

“The first time I ever experienced giving up a soul piece—I know everyone would say that having someone half-carry the loss makes it worth it, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt exciting. Exhilarating. Losing a soul piece. . . I liked it. Reveled in it. Didn’t matter if the other reciprocated or not. I loved it because it was almost an escape; as crazy as that sounds,” he added, almost sounding hysterical.

“It’s like the more I lose, the more I saw myself. I wasn’t really losing, because it really felt like I was all gaining. I got lost in the feeling because it was. . .” Dean struggled to find the right word to put it.

“Completing?” whispered Castiel, leaning closer to him unknowingly, enthralled. Dean’s everything held onto the word raptly with a faint, bated gasp.

“Exactly,” Dean breathed, and his eyes flicked to Castiel’s dangerously close lips, and for a mere second he considered throwing caution to the wind—not considering at all, to let the magnetism, the gravity of the man’s doe-eyed gaze pull him to a brink of which he didn’t know the end—but Castiel blinked once, and Dean sharply looked away, and the moment was lost.

Dean cleared his throat, and Castiel frantically questioned in his mind what the hell just happened.

“Yeah. Yeah, kinda like that. Completing. But the third time, I found something new: soul-receiving,” reminisced Dean. “That day, something clicked in me. And it was all downhill from there.”

“You’re a soul-addict,” Castiel surmised, brows lifted in realization, and Dean’s face contorted into one of chagrin.

“I was. Until I almost died. Then it became spite.”

“What happened?” asked Castiel softly in shock, and Dean told him about his best friend, Benny Lafitte, the memories as clear as day, unearthed by nature. How he’d met him in a small town called Purgatory in Louisiana seven years after he left Lawrence when his parents had just announced that they were divorcing. It scared Dean how easily he was filling Castiel in on one of the burdensome moments of his life.

Before Dean met Benny, he traveled to random places, staying only for about a year and working menial jobs that pay enough. Usually, he would find a lover within that timeframe, not purposefully. But it had never worked out for long, and Dean had constantly questioned if it was him.

In the propitious summer of 1946, Dean situated a small town in Louisiana where he met Benny at the local diner. Dean frequented Guidry's Cajun Café, and he became fast friends with the Elizabeth, the manager, and Benny, the cook and Elizabeth’s older brother.

Dean didn’t expect to find a best friend, but Benny was one of the very few whom Dean truly opened up to.

“He was a good man, Benny, if not the best. He always helped me out whenever I needed it, and he accepted me for who I was. He was there for me ‘til the end.”

“The end?”

It was three years later when foolishly squandering his exiguous soul to a woman named Lydia became his undoing. He was on his deathbed, right next to Benny’s. Guess they were best friends after all, because Benny used up all his soul, too, for his former lover, Andrea. They could both hear Lizzie’s sobs outside the hospital door, unable to take sight of her dying brother and dying friend.

“You were always so dumb, brother,” Benny had chuckled with a wheeze, and Dean hacked in reply, “Says the guy that went groveling back to his ex.”

Benny closed his eyes with a weak smile. “You telling me we’re just a bunch o’ goobers?”

“Yeah,” Dean whispered, body beginning to give in to his malady.

“Hey now, don’t you go on dyin’ before me,” warned Benny, coughing before turning to face sideways to peer at his best friend that no longer responded to him.

“Dean?”

He remained stagnant.

“Dean!” bellowed Benny with his hoarse voice. “No, Dean,” he croaked, a tear slipping from his eye, before shutting them tightly with what little strength he could muster, willing the world to change.

He concentrated all his energy to _Dean_ , thoughts of Dean, thoughts for Dean, memories of him, and every emotion that he had felt since the man first came to town.

And with a stretched-out resonance in his ears, pop came his hold, Dean gave a loud gasp on his bed, and Benny’s knuckle-white grip loosened sadly.

Dean heaved large breaths, awed at how he could control his limbs again, getting a feel of his hands and toes. He sat up on his bed cautiously, as though he would revert any moment, before breaking into a disbelieving laugh, an odd sort of radiance painting his cheeks.

“Benny, are you seeing this? I can—I’m cured! Benny, do you—?” He stopped when he saw an unmoving body on Benny’s bed, the feeble smile out of place.

“That’s—that’s good, brother.” Dean went to his side, taking a chair and sitting on it.

“You didn’t—” he hesitated. “You didn’t have anything to do with this, right?”

Benny wanted to guffaw, but it only came out as a reedy breath. “You take care—of Lizzie—you hear?”

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath. “No, you couldn’t have, no.” Dean grabbed at the man’s hand, trapping them with his own as it dawned on him what his best friend had done. “No, you idiot, what were you thinking!” he cried, moisture filling his eyes.

“You—Dean.” And Dean sobbed at the man’s grip. “I don’t—regret nothin’—chief.”

“I can’t believe you.” Dean met the man’s blue eyes, also glassy, and laggingly, the once-bright, ocean eyes that had constantly gazed at Dean with such fierce fondness, was now draining of color, and he saw it for what it was.

“Brothers always,” he whispered, tears streaking down his face.

Benny’s lips quirked at the corner, a fragile twitch, before the blue was lost to the world forever.

“ _Brothers_.”

• • •

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Dean,” consoled Castiel, eyebrows knitted into a tender frown at Dean’s admission. “That was truly a selfless act, what he did.”

Dean scoffed derisively. “Yeah, he gave up his remaining soul for me, and the first thing I did after the funeral was to drown in hedonism.”

“You were grieving, Dean. You were finding a way to ease your pain.”

“For seventy years?”

Castiel didn’t reply, and Dean gave one short, callous laugh. “I swore to myself I would never be weak again. I left! I left and I began collecting souls to fill this—this bottomless pit.”

“Dean.” Castiel placed a tentative palm on Dean’s knee, an attempt to impart succor. “You were hurting.”

“Quit justifying my actions!” growled Dean, just a little alarmed that earlier today, the tables were turned. “Can’t change what I did.”

Castiel shook his head at him. “I’m not saying that, because you can’t. We can’t change the past, what you’ve done.” He paused to give him an empathic look before saying— “But Dean, if you desire it, you _can_ change what you do.”

Dean held the man’s eyes, suffused only with understanding and tenderness. He was almost tempted to break away from it if not for the sheer guilelessness of his expression.

“I have to be honest. It’s not going to be easy, Dean. But I find that, with a little help, anything is possible.” Castiel smiled at his direction, and Dean reciprocated it inwardly. It pained him how easily he could believe it.

Unable to fully commit, Dean asked, “You really believe that? That people can be saved? That I—I can change?”

“I do.” Dean was surprised at the adamancy etched in the syllables Castiel uttered, and Castiel himself didn’t know where it came from. Despite it, he gave Dean’s knee a reassuring squeeze before returning his hand to his thigh, and Dean gave a flimsy smile in a silent thank you.

They laid taciturn and comfortable on the wall of the Chamber of History the whole night, save for Dean’s occasional question and Castiel’s new plans for the reconstruction of the entire soul paradigm.

When it was about 1 a.m., they were taking turns yawning, and with a bleary blink, Castiel saw Dean rubbing his hands together and stashing them inside his jacket pockets.

“You’re cold?” Castiel asked, but before Dean could form a reply, he had already begun shoving off his trench coat.

“Wh–What’re you doing?” Castiel held the coat for Dean to take, but he just looked up at him, the scarce light bathing his face in an otherworldly glow. “Aren’t you gonna get cold?”

Castiel peered at his clothes, running his hand against his waistcoat. “This vest is quite warm.”

When Dean accepted the trench and draped it over his chest, they traded small smiles, returning to their former peace. And a few minutes later, they fell into a slumber, Dean’s head falling to Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel unconsciously leaning his head further into the warmth.

They hadn’t even noticed that the walls that they were wearing around each other had pulverized into nothing, not unlike the space between them.

• • •

Dean and Castiel woke up to the sound of successive camera shutters. Dean stirred first, finding a weight on his crown, before registering the sight of Gabriel and Chancellor Shurley standing in front of them—the chancellor holding a phone up his hands and pressing his doddery finger on the screen, and Gabriel with his mouth hanging open, gawping in stupefaction at the sight.

“Holy shit!” Dean gave a pointed jolt at the scene, jarring Castiel into wakefulness after his head thumped the wall at Dean’s sudden movement.

“Ow,” Castiel groused, drowsily rubbing a palm at his head, eyes still closed. Dean’s were stretched wide open at the doctors, clapping at Castiel’s chest to heave him into awareness. He scowled at the hand, before lifting his gaze to the front.

“Chuck! Gabe!” he exclaimed, wide-eyed, clambering to a stand along with Dean, who very inconspicuously handed back his trench coat by their behinds.

“Uhh. What is happening?” Gabriel asked, half his bearings gathered, as Chuck slipped a phone into his son’s pocket, while another remained on his hand. “Yes, do explain.”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“We got locked in.”

Castiel and Dean exchanged weird looks at their simultaneous responses.

When Gabriel began to get over his shock, his face transitioned into one of mischievous. “Are you sure, Cassie? Because it kinda looked like you spent the night wrapped around each other.”

“We—um—”

“We wanted to check the crime scene a second time,” supplied Dean, hedging a weirded glance at Castiel. “Took a peek, and when we tried to get out, it was locked.”

Gabriel hummed, not quite taken by it, as the chancellor said, “I see. I take it your phone had no service?” He held the phone to Dean, and Dean whipped around to see that his phone was no longer by the floor, but in Chuck’s hand. He took it in bafflement, nodding his head slowly.

Castiel spoke up. “I was expecting the janitorial staff.”

“They completely missed you behind the door. Called us to report a broken exhibit, glass everywhere. Speaking of—the earthquake. You were in here the whole time?” Gabriel turned apprehensive.

“We grew worried when you failed to pick up your phone last night, Castiel.” Chuck seemed equally unsettled, and from there you could easily see the resemblance between father and son.

“Yes, I—well, I forgot my phone in my office. I didn’t mean to cause alarm,” he said serenely, and remembering Dean’s words, it was time to come clean. “Gabriel, Chuck, I’ve been keeping something from both of you.”

Dean was surprised, and maybe a little pleased because Castiel’s peek at him conveyed that he was thinking about Dean’s words last night.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Gabriel fretted, a careful concern waving in his tone, but the chancellor stared back and forth at Castiel and Dean, brows raised hopefully, as though expecting them to say that they were. . . But, nah. . . Could he?

Castiel bounced awkwardly on the balls of his feet. “The earthquakes; I don’t know why, but when they occur, I experience flashbacks of my worst memory. My mother’s death.”

In an instant, both of their expressions fell into one of trepidation. “I think you both realize the superficial reason.”

“No,” the chancellor gasped softly with dolorous eyes, and Gabriel advanced to Castiel to attack him in a firm embrace.

“Are you alright, Cassie?” he asked, Castiel returning the embrace gratefully.

“I’m managing.”

Gabriel pulled away, face pulled into a frown. He glimpsed at his father in question.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he rasped, taking steps forward with a fretful look. “We are not suffering from soul scarcity. Nor are we in the fringe of it.”

Castiel shook his head helplessly, and Chuck clasped his shoulder solicitously. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry. How long have you been experiencing flashbacks?”

He bit the inside of his cheek before he answered. “Since the first one last month.”

A raucous of groans and hisses and “what the hell, Cassie” resounded.

“And you’re only telling us now?” Gabriel demanded.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel lamented, peering at Dean who only looked at him encouragingly.

“No matter,” said Chuck sternly. “But from now on, we expect full disclosure from you, Castiel. We love you and we are going to help.” The doting under his words were unmistakable, and Castiel felt full.

“Thank you,” he whispered to both of them, and Chuck ruffled his hair affectionately, earning a smiling roll of eyes from Castiel.

“So, Dean-o, any luck with the case?” Gabriel opened, winking. “Or elsewhere?”

Dean’s eyes widened, throat clearing with a muted shake of his head at Gabriel. He reported with haste, “New evidence has come to light, but I will tell both of you what I can when we sort it out.” He waved lamely to Castiel, catching his eye. Castiel nodded at him.

“Yes, we need to do something right now. Of utmost import.”

“Ditching us, Cassie?” He arched a brow. “Fine. Dad and I need to find someone to fix whichever piece broke, anyway.”

“We’ll talk, all right, Castiel?” asked Chuck, and he beamed in reply.

Castiel egressed, and Dean was following suit when the chancellor caught his arm, not for the first time.

“Can I ask you to look after him, Dean?” he mumbled lowly, earnestly, and Dean gave one solid nod that he meant.

“You can count on it.”

The chancellor’s grip loosened, content at Dean’s response, and Dean rolled his eyes at Gabriel’s exaggerated wink.

When Dean crossed the threshold of the chamber and onto the corridor, he saw Castiel waiting for him by the staircase, hand on the wooden rail with a quizzical look. “Did they say something?”

Dean shook his head, a smile on his face. “Just wanted to wish us luck.”

They ascended to the third floor, fortuitously encountering Balthazar exiting his office who spotted Dean and him together.

“Cassie!” Balthazar’s shrill voice boomed in the hallway, making Castiel wince at the loudness. “You look more rumpled than usual. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had se—”

“Balt. We need to talk.”

“Do all your friends call you ‘Cassie’?” Dean muttered, and Castiel pulled his lips into a thin line of displeasure at the nickname.

“Gabriel and he are my only friends.”

Dean bit his lip unknowingly as he looked on the immortal ushering the indignant Englishman back inside his office with some sort of fondness.

_Not for long._

Castiel sat Balthazar down his swivel chair as he gave an affronted huff, his briefcase landing on the tabletop. “What is going on? If you’re looking for a ménage à trois, I’m afraid we have to reschedule.”

“Balt. Shut up.” Castiel reached an outstretched palm to Dean, and he placed his phone on it, the video ready to play, as he half-sat on Balthazar’s desk, with Dean by the window. “Watch this.”

“This is a surveillance footage, is it not? I don’t see how—oh.”

Balthazar’s expression changed from confusion into a frown as he took the phone in his hands.

“I sleepwalk?”

Castiel sighed, forbearing. “You hadn’t noticed any signs or symptoms?”

Balthazar shook his head, but stopping in the middle of it at a realization, grimacing. “So this is why I keep waking up like I’ve run a marathon in my sleep?”

He scrutinized the video further, Castiel’s features softening, and Dean asked, “Did you find anything unusual when you woke up on May 12?”

“May 12, why does that date sound significant?”

“The Silver Fragment theft.”

Balthazar’s eyes widened at the implication, gaping back at the screen before stifling a gasp. “This footage was at the night of the theft? I thought it was erased—”

“We have our ways,” Dean cut off. “What do you remember?”

His face scrunched in effort and recall, and Dean and Castiel shared a look.

“Well, I think I do remember, if I’m not mistaken. I woke up at the foot of my bedroom door and. . . my pyjama pants ripped by the thigh. That’s all I can call to mind.”

“Really, Balt? Your pajamas were ripped and that didn’t raise any red flags or strike you as odd?” Castiel reprimanded exasperatedly at his friend, and said friend’s face fell.

“I’m sorry, Cassie—I didn’t know—I didn’t mean to—I would never—” Castiel interrupted him with a hand on his shoulder because he looked like he was on the verge of tearing up. He casted him a moderating look, a soft concern overcoming him.

“Hey, it’s okay, Balt. We’re going to help you, find you a specialist, alright?”

Castiel took him into his arms, engulfing him in a comforting hug, and Balthazar held onto it tightly, blinking the tears back. “Thank you, Cassie.”

Dean warmed at the gesture.

When they broke off, Castiel’s hand lingered on his arm, but Balthazar’s eyes landed on Dean.

“If you think I had something to do with the soul piece, you’re severely mistaken.”

“Balt,” said Castiel placatingly before Dean could open his mouth. “I know. We believe you.” His eyes fastened on Dean, imploring _Trust me_. And Dean did.

He really did.

Dean gave him a nod, then to Balthazar, and he sighed in relief.

“But we’re gonna need your cooperation for the investigation. You went downstairs, and we still don’t have the other footage, so. Don’t go anywhere. We don’t know what might come in handy.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll be more than delighted to help. But for now, I have a class to get to, and I’m already appallingly late.” He rose from his seat, Dean and Castiel’s eyes following him.

“Gentlemen.” He overtook Dean and Castiel, but not before grabbing the side of Castiel’s head and placing a chaste, thanking kiss on his hair. Castiel squirmed but it was too late, and Balthazar was already walking away with his briefcase, and Dean felt an unpleasantness at the pit of his stomach.

“Lock up, will you, Cassie?” Balthazar called, before the door swung shut and Dean and Castiel were left alone once more.

“So, guess we’re back to square one,” Dean pierced the silence, tipping his head onto the glass of the window, the sunshine outlining him artfully.

Not that Castiel had thought that.

“I wouldn’t say square one. . .” he chaffed, and the corner of Dean’s mouth lifted, comprehending.

Castiel mirrored it. “Don’t worry, Dean. I have faith.” He stood to his two feet, ducking his head, suddenly shy.

“I believe you said that I ‘owe you one,’” he finger-quoted, and Dean had to stop himself from laughing at the winsome motion. “How about some breakfast? I have no class today.”

Dean was revitalized at the invitation, but Castiel looked somewhat nervous, as though Dean would turn him down.

Ridiculous.

“You bet your ass I want some grub.”

And maybe, stupidly, _deliriously_ , he was beginning to have faith, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's 1/3 of The Silver Fragment! I like to think of this as Part I: Enemies.
> 
> Leave a kudos on your way (and a comment while you're at it). I would love to know what you think so far.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://missbeansprout.tumblr.com)!


	10. Chapter 9: Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

**One Month Later**

_. . . and I implore all of you to broaden your minds, heed this new information in a new light. We have all built our knowledge, some of us our entire careers on what was known about soul. This is a paradigm shift of a monumental scale. Certainly, new ideas for research studies will emerge that will help verify juvenile soul-giving. . ._

Tapping his index finger agitatedly on the spacebar of his laptop, not quite pushing it, Castiel chased the next words that seemed to elude him purposely.

He exhaled harshly, bringing his forefinger to the backspace key and slamming on it repeatedly with more force than warranted until the last sentence had disappeared.

 _. . . This_ _~~shift~~ _ _progress will undoubtedly generate novel research that can help us_ _~~verify~~ _ _validate i’ve been at this the whole morninh and if i don’t finish it within the week i’m gping to get my head shav—_

The professor’s vigorous typing was halted in the air at the three sharp raps on wood. He glanced at the door above the frame of his laptop before his shoulders slumped with a sigh and he swiveled 180 degrees to face the extensive table he had situated behind his desk almost three weeks ago, where books and papers were now scattered haphazardly on its length.

“It’s open,” voiced Castiel, as he traced the second paragraph of page 337 of the nearest flaying book with the pad of his left pointer finger, and the last sentence of the journal adjacent to it with his right.

The doorknob twisted, and Castiel heard the creak of the hinges, a footstep after another, and something akin to a rustle of a paper bag.

Seriously, if this was Gabriel or Balthazar again intent on screwing his morning further because they knew Castiel had been working on his keynote address for the past week, he was going to rip th—

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes lifted from where they were glued to his reading materials, his head and body rising uprightly along.

“Dean,” recognized Castiel, a little breathless, and he turned on his seat, taking in the man’s disposition: a toothy grin, his usual cheap suit upgraded to a dark henley over plaid, brown pants, and a large, paper bag on his palm, as his shoe pushed the door closed.

“Brought you some breakfast.” He advanced to the desk, before pausing in hesitation. “’M not disturbing you, am I?”

Castiel shook his head with a sort of transfixed expression.

“I didn’t know you were—when did you get back?”

“Just now, actually.” Dean traipsed the space to the wooden chair by Castiel’s desk, tempering his grin with a bite to his cheek, setting down the package beside his laptop before reaching in and pulling the two food boxes out. “Dropped by the Roadhouse. Ellen was looking for ya.”

Castiel smiled at that. The past month had been a whirlwind for the Silver Fragment case. When Dean and Castiel were working on leads, Dean would drag the man to food joints, and Castiel would only agree to the habitual sustenance begrudgingly. They would try out the diners around Lawrence, their table unfailingly becoming a mess of papers, not unlike the one behind Castiel at the moment.

When they decided to check out the Roadhouse for the second time, they snorted the whole time reminiscing about their foremost conversation. There, they met the bartender’s mother, Ellen, who owned the place. She immediately recommended her customer-favorite burgers, that Dean came to put on a pedestal in his ‘Best Burgers’ list, and that Castiel devoured twice as fast as Dean had.

Castiel had definitely gained more weight over the past month. He looked leaner, healthier—taken care of.

They became regulars soon enough that Ellen and Jo, her daughter, probably knew as much as they did about the development of the Silver Fragment case.

“Did she, now?” Castiel took the outstretched box from Dean with a grateful duck of his head. “Maybe her missing me could mean free extra fries next time.”

“When did you become a glutton?”

“Since you corrupted me.”

“Hmm.” Dean grinned rakishly. “Missed you, Cas.”

Castiel’s gaze held onto Dean’s, and as an afterthought, Dean internally berated himself that it probably wasn’t the bro-est thing to say. But Castiel smiled shyly, looking pleased, and his self-scolding was derailed when he replied—

“I missed you, too, Dean.”

Dean had to wrestle his heart from leaving its cage.

Internally calming himself down, he deposited a water bottle in front of Castiel and a soda for him, setting the paper bag aside then taking his seat with a grunt. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, gesturing to the meals he’d brought.

“How do you know I haven’t already eaten?”

“Have you?” Dean raised a challenging brow.

“No, but I could—”

“Ah ah.” He lifted a finger at him, shushing, before pointing to his food. “Starving. Eat.”

“Alright,” Castiel conceded, turning to his MacBook and saving his file perfunctorily before closing it off and placing it away from their makeshift brunch. But Dean had stolen a second-short glimpse, enough for him to surmise what Castiel had been doing before he arrived.

He peeked over Castiel’s shoulder to the chaos of a table behind him, opening the flap of his food packaging. “How’s the speech going?”

Castiel sighed, twisting the cap of his bottled water. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get it ready in time for the conference.” He brought it to his lips and took a sip, Dean’s mouth suddenly going dry at the bead of water escaping the corner of Castiel’s mouth and falling to his jaw, by the perpetual five-o’clock shadow (and it wasn’t even noon yet), then running defiantly against his throat and disappearing inside his collar.

Dean shook himself out of it, taking a bite out of his burger. “You still got, what—two, three weeks?” he asked, muffled because of the food.

“Three weeks, yes. Not nearly enough time to incorporate everything I want.” He capped the bottle closed, digging into his meal and finding himself smirking.

Castiel turned his box for Dean to see. “I told you. Extra fries.”

Dean’s eyes lit up, hand immediately going to the fries, but Castiel pried them away from Dean’s reach, albeit playfully. “Get your own, Dean.”

He scowled at the man. “Should I remind you who paid for this?”

“So stingy.” Castiel rolled his eyes fondly, returning his meal to the table with Dean grabbling for the fries and popping them immediately to his mouth. He kind of resembled a munching squirrel, full of nuts on either cheek.

Castiel snickered at the image, taking the first bite of his burger.

“So your speech,” Dean started, “Anything I can do to help?”

Castiel contemplated a moment before answering, “I mean I have all the data. All I need to do is to consolidate it to a 30-minute address, more or less. I’ve never had this much difficulty in constructing a speech. Maybe it’s because of the new knowledge, and everything is going to change after the talk, and the pressure is sort of bearing down on me and—” He stopped, staring down at his meal. “It’s just—it’s big. I want it to count.”

Dean halted chewing, swallowing his masticated burger, and keeping a steady survey of Castiel. “You feel like all your other speeches didn’t?”

“It’s not that, I mean—they have their significance, of course. But this is a colossal transfiguration, what with the validation of juvenile soul-giving, and I just. . .” Castiel gave an onerous sigh. “It feels as though I have a foot out of the door, into a universe of which I’m not acquainted with, and it makes me. . .”

“Scared?”

Castiel met Dean’s open stare, and with a nervous gulp, he gave a short nod.

Dean smiled, appreciating the honesty. “Understandable. People are scared of what they don’t understand,” he acknowledged, leaning over the table to scoot closer to Castiel.

“But if I know anything ‘bout you, Cas, is that you thrive in the unknown—relish it sometimes. You _want_ to know, care enough to want to know. You don’t stop when you hit a wall. You have all the experience the world could possibly give.” Dean gave him a genuine smile. “Believe me when I say there’s no better man for the job.”

Castiel was a little stunned at the spiel, unexpected as it was. He didn’t know that Dean regarded him in such a light, and the skittish feeling in his extremities had transformed into a warm, fuzzy one that settled in his stomach, and he could feel his pulse beating faster than usual.

He suppressed his traitorous lips from forming into a giddy smile, lowering his head.

“I can think of some.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but there was no heat. “I’m trying here, Cas.”

He let the grin emerge by half, speaking through his lashes. “You don’t know how much that means to me, Dean.”

Dean’s lips turned up at the corner.

“Guess you’re rubbing off on me with these pep talks thingy.”

They shared a quiet moment, something they found themselves having more often than not; a soft, subdued exchange that needed no words. The blue meets green, the green meets blue, and they both implicitly know. Feel.

_I got you._

And they broke eye contact, and the moment had passed.

They returned to eating their meals, Castiel asking, “How about you, Dean? How was Michigan? Charlie?”

“Charlie’s same old. Still perky and nerdy.”

“I would love to meet her someday.”

Dean smiled. “We can do that. You two’d get along well, I just know it.”

They ate their meals in a comfortable silence, and when Dean finished his, he fidgeted with his soda cup, his nerves buzzing in anxiety at what he set out to ask Castiel once he got back.

“Cas. . .” he began, and Castiel’s eyes settled on him, still chewing but attentive.

He vacillated, rocking forward and back on his chair.

“I mean, not to be weird or anything, but, I mean, don't take this the wrong way or anything,” he rambled, but Castiel was patiently listening, finishing his burger and wiping his hands on a napkin.

Dean controlled his breathing. “Like, we’re friends, right? I mean, we’ve known each other for more than a month now, and _I_ don’t wanna be weird, but you might think it’s weird I’m asking this. I just wanna make it perfectly, totally clear, ‘cause I don’t wanna impose or anything—”

“Dean,” placated Castiel.

_Smooth._

“Yeah?”

Earnestly, Castiel smiled at the man. “Of course we’re friends.”

Dean breathed heavily in relief at that, like the air he was holding since the moment he slid into his Impala this morning was finally emancipated.

“Good. Let’s do a July Fourth picnic.”

Castiel’s head banked a little at that, a smile unfolding on his lips.

“A picnic?”

“Yeah, on the fourth of July. Kind of cheesy, I know, but I took Sammy on a July 4th once, and it was pretty fun. If you’re not busy, o’course, wouldn’t wanna get your speech held up if you—”

“ _Dean_.”

“What?” he asked helplessly.

Castiel laughed; that beautiful, electric laugh of his that never failed to punch the air out of Dean. Though he was too busy analyzing what the laugh meant to fully appreciate it.

“You should blither more often, Dean.” Castiel grinned. “A picnic it is, then.”

Dean beamed in reply.

• • •

Castiel was tidying up his desks (well, not so much as tidying as stacking similar papers on top of each other) after spending the day cooped inside his office trying to get his speech done.

It was past 5 p.m., and Dean had left around 3, telling Castiel that he needed to run some errands—specifically food-related ones, as he was gone for an entirety of four days and his motel’s fridge needed replenishing. Castiel had asked if he could buy him some apples, because his kitchen was sorely lacking some fruits, and Dean had promised not to forget.

Though Castiel wouldn’t put it behind Dean to forget something like that.

He drifted back to the time he was held up in a departmental meeting, Dean telling him he had to swing by the grocery for some pie. Castiel had asked if he could buy some things for him, and it easily turned into a list.

When they’d met up that night at Castiel’s, Dean handed him two bagfuls of produce and when Castiel inquired where his pie was, only then did Dean realize that he forgot his beloved pie, cursing at himself in utter dismay.

It was probably fortuitous then that Castiel dropped by the local bakery to buy a whole pie of maple and pecan to thank Dean for the chivalrous help.

When Castiel brought out the pie, Dean’s face immediately brightened, pouncing, and at the time, Castiel didn’t know if it was to the pie or to him, and he briefly thought he was going to get kissed.

He wasn’t. Kissed.

Anyway.

They’d spent the whole night just lounging around the TV and wolfing down the delectable, beautifully made pie.

That was a pleasant memory, Castiel thought, before snapping his head out of Dean-thoughts, and hastily grabbing his stuff and bolting out of KU in his Continental to the Kline-Shurley household to pick Jack up.

He parked his car by the pavement, honking twice to alert the blonde freshman of his arrival. He didn’t have to wait long, because a few seconds after his beeps, a harassed-looking adolescent emerged from the front door, a coat in his right hand, beelining to Castiel’s car.

Jack slammed the car door shut a little harsher than normal after he slid in the shotgun seat, unbothered to even so much as greet Castiel. The older man’s eyebrows knitted into a concerned frown.

“Is everything alright, Jack?”

“Copacetic,” the boy replied, staring straight into the windshield, his lips returning to a sour line.

Castiel shifted his body sideways to face Jack, inquiring, as the hand resting on the wheel tightened in worry. His eyes automatically skimmed Jack’s face for any indication of something purpling.

“Did Luke do anything—?”

“No, Cas,” he interrupted hastily, stealing a glance at the man, not fully committing to a look for fear of erupting into pathetic tears.

He took a deep breath. “No, he—he didn’t do. . . whatever you’re thinking about. But he, um, yeah. He threw a fit when I asked about the trip,” muttered Jack.

Castiel didn’t stop the relieved sigh from leaving him. He placed a comforting grip on Jack’s shoulder, and he sagged into it immediately.

“Gabriel and I are going to do our best to convince him, Jack. One way or another. We know how much this means to you.”

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, before quietly replying, “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel gave Jack a final reassuring squeeze, then went to turn his key, the engine sputtering to life. He pressed on the gas, peeling away to the Shurley-MacLeod’s.

It was Rowena who answered the door for them, her bouncy red hair essentially smothering Castiel and Jack when she pulled them both into a single hug by their necks, small as she was.

“Hello, Rowena,” Castiel greeted, returning the embrace as best as he could. When Rowena released them, she was wearing her signature smirk-smile.

She jutted her head forward between them, knowingly and expectantly, and the two men reflexively leaned forward to give each of Rowena’s cheeks a kiss.

Satisfied, she drew back grinning. “My boys, how I’ve missed you.”

Spotting Jack’s collar that went off-kilter from the hug, she fixed it with both hands, bopping her finger on his nose after. Jack’s lips gave a valiant twitch. “I missed you, too, Aunt Rowena.”

She ushered them into the house, accepting Castiel’s bottle of wine wrapped with a bow, and into the dining area where Gabriel was already enjoying his first glass of the night.

“Didn’t bother waiting for us, Gabe?” Castiel clapped him on the shoulder, and he stood to shoot him a wink and ruffled Jack’s hair affectionately. “If it makes you feel better, I already ate half of Rowena’s cooking.”

“No, it does not make me feel better.”

“Which is _why_ ,” Rowena sing-songed from another room, “I made another batch. And now the little trickster’s banned from the kitchen forever.”

Gabriel pouted exaggeratedly as they all took their usual seats on the dining table, Castiel and Jack across Gabriel and Rowena’s empty chair, respectively.

“But I said I’m sorry, sweetie.”

Rowena emerged from the arched doorway that connected the dining room and the kitchen, holding a round ceramic with dark mittens and setting it down at the center of the table. She placed her hands on her hips, mittens notwithstanding, as she turned to her husband.

“Yes, well, Kanye West also apologized for his uncouth behavior towards Taylor Swift but it still can’t delete all the videos in the world.”

“What—?”

Castiel and Jack were immediately drawn to the smell of pot pie, wafting from the large dish, straight to their nostrils. They didn’t even notice Rowena disappearing and reappearing again, this time with a bowl of variegated roasted vegetables.

“Let me help you, honey. I’ll get the glasses.” Gabriel rose from his seat, heading for the kitchen, but Rowena blocked the open doorway, forbidding him from entering.

“What did I just say?”

“But I’m helping!” Gabriel protested.

“Are you? Really?” She lifted an imperious brow.

Gabriel raised his hands in surrender. “I promise no more stealing.”

Rowena looked on distrustfully, arms crossed against her chest. Only when Gabriel leaned forward to kiss her forehead, whispering, “I promise,” before peppering her face with smooches that Rowena couldn’t help her lips from flicking up, succumbing.

“I’ll know when you’ve taken something, dear. Be prepared to sleep on the couch for a week if I do.”

She let Gabriel pass, almost missing him muttering, “But there’s a guest room. . .”

Rowena returned to the table, laughing lightly at the men drooling at the food. “Dig in, then.”

Jack was the first to grab the serving spoon and scoop himself a helping of the casserole and half a plate of greens. Castiel was heaving some pot pie, too, when Gabriel came back with three Bordeaux glasses and a bottle opener.

When Rowena settled the sweet potato mash onto the surface, she took her seat and let Gabriel pop open Castiel’s wine and pour each of them a glass.

All of them posited, Rowena raised her drink to the middle of the table, smiling serenely when the three followed. “To family.”

Gabriel and Castiel echoed the sentiment, before they clinked their glasses together the way they always did. It had always been the four of them, after all, except that 17 or so years ago, the youngest of them had been sitting on a highchair and unable to join their toasts.

“You seem a little quiet tonight, little man,” Gabriel noticed when Jack didn’t speak the toast. “Is everything okay?”

Jack opened his mouth, but no words came out. At that, Castiel spoke for him.

“Luke’s being intransigent. I think maybe a talk with Chuck can change that, don’t you think, Gabe?”

His eyes lit up with understanding. “Yup, absolutely. Dad’s gonna be giving him a piece of his mind, Jack.”

Jack gave a subdued smile, small but thankful for this true family of his. “Thanks, Uncle Gabe.”

He sent him a playful wink, then turned his attention to the food, serving his wife first with the mash.

Castiel moaned at the first forkful. “Row, to this day, I don’t know why you chose Gabe as your life partner, but I’m glad you did. I’d be lost without your cooking.”

“Hey,” groused Gabriel waggishly. “I’d betcha it’s the mind-blowing sex.”

“Gabe!” Castiel exclaimed, halting his instinct to cover Jack’s ears as Rowena looked on contemplatively then shrugged as though it was _at least_ partially true. “Keep it PG, please.”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Jack said emphatically, if not for the edgy expression Castiel kept giving him.

“Oh, don’t we know it, bud.” Gabriel chewed with faux-solemnity. “I think he was pertaining to himself.”

Castiel rolled his eyes at that, but took Jack’s words to heart. He was right. He was no longer a child, Castiel reminded himself.

“Unless Dean-o has been rubbing off on you?”

Castiel choked on his wine, setting it down and dabbing his mouth with a tissue, clearing his throat a bit. “Excuse me?”

“You know, in the ‘hormonal teenagers’ kind of way,” quipped Gabriel, and Rowena had to cover her lips with a napkin to stop herself from snorting.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Castiel continued with his meal, savoring the taste as the clash of silver against ceramic pervaded the room. He hadn’t detected the confused frown on Jack’s face.

“Wait. Cas and—and. . . Agent Smith?”

Castiel felt his neck and face heat up at the direction of the conversation. “Don’t listen to your uncle.”

Gabriel gave a harrumph of indignation. “I’ll have you know that in the duration of my existence, Cassie has never willingly spent that much time with another person who isn’t family. You’d have to drag him from the depths of hell to get him to socialize.”

“I socialize with Balthazar,” he contended halfheartedly.

“Which is why I said ‘willingly.’”

“Dean and I are working the soul piece theft.”

“Are you gonna sit there, look me in the eye, and tell me that you’re _not_ friends with him?”

Castiel licked his lips, and Gabriel took the reticence as victory. “I rest my case.”

“How _is_ that beautiful specimen, Castiel?” Rowena inquired, her elbows on the table and fingers entwined below her chin, sporting a teasing smile.

“Yeah, is he back?” Gabriel added, chewing on a Brussels sprout.

Shaking his head with a sigh, he capitulated. “Yes, he got back from headquarters this morning. He’s fine. He was told to keep on the case no matter how long it takes,” Castiel fibbed. He didn’t like lying, he never did, but they had to deflect any suspicion.

Since when did Dean and he become a _they_?

The three accepted his answer, though Jack was still stunned that he never even considered Castiel and Dean together, as growing up Castiel never really dated nor expressed any attraction to anyone. Castiel assured him that they were just friends, and Gabriel and Rowena tittered about who was top and who was bottom—Jack had to thwack his back when Castiel choked on some mash and began hacking his lungs out.

They talked more when Castiel’s coughing had dwindled, going off on a tangent about Lucifer’s horrendous birthday dinner last month which Dean had attended. His first gathering with the Shurley’s extended family, at the original Shurley residence, before the children branched out. Castiel remembered Dean’s face of awe at what was essentially a mansion, and his nervous handshakes with everyone and their luck-wishing for the case of the Silver Fragment theft.

“We’ll find the soul piece, Dean. I have faith,” Castiel had whispered to him that night, and he recalled Dean’s warm eyes gazing into him in hope.

Again, since when did they become a _we_?

That night was probably the most he’d talked with Mike again this century, as they weren’t particularly close. But she had been always within vicinity that time, considering the enormity of the Shurley residence, even introducing her stepson, Adam Milligan, to Dean. Adam had been gone before the dinner ended though, as usual, Castiel noted.

And then, all too soon, the four of them were stuffed to the brim after dessert with Rowena’s cherry pie. If Castiel had asked her if he could bring home a slice or two, then that was possibly Dean’s business.

By the time they were kissing and/or hugging each other good night, Jack’s mood had visibly lifted. He even snickered when Gabriel, an arm draped around Rowena, suggested, “Now, how about some of that mind-blowing sex, hon?”

Castiel’s mortified face had them all laughing as Castiel and Jack parted from the couple and approached his car.

Seated, though, putting the gear into drive, Jack asked him quietly if he could spend the night at Castiel’s.

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to go home yet.”

“Of course, Jack. My home is always open for you.”

• • •

When Dean pulled over at the front of Castiel’s house and walked up to the door, the empty driveway that he just noticed struck him as odd. His new friend wasn’t in his office, and Castiel wasn’t really a going-out type, so Dean had thought he’d be home.

He felt conflicted, not really grasping why a feeling of uneasiness made its home in his gut. As he stood confounded on Castiel’s walkway, the box of all-meat-and-cheese pizza and bag of crisp, green apples sat quiet on Dean’s arms, and all of a sudden, made him lonely.

Which was irrational, really. Dean didn’t own Castiel. So what if the guy went out, probably with his own friends? It wasn’t his damn business.

Mouth settled on a flat line, he dawdled to the doorstep, trying to peek inside, to find any indication that someone was home, and Castiel simply left his god-awful car somewhere else.

No such luck came for Dean. At least at first. And when he turned on his feet, a desolate sigh leaving his lips, light illuminated the road and a grumble of an engine filled his ears.

The god-awful Continental.

Then as if his bout of emotionality never happened, hope flashed in his chest. The beige monstrosity came into view, taking its place on the driveway.

Dean remained fixed on the concrete, waiting, as Castiel exited the driver’s seat, and Jack from the passenger’s.

He advanced to the two men, Castiel rounding on his car to Jack’s and Dean’s side.

If he had doubts if he was overstepping, they all evaporated once he took in Castiel, who looked positively delighted.

“Dean, you’re here.”

He grinned at him, the both of them. “Hey, Cas. How’re you, kid?”

Jack, who he had the pleasure of meeting less than a month ago, was looking at him the way Castiel usually studied facial expressions. It was uncanny, really, the likeness. Dean wanted to ask Castiel again if he was sure Jack wasn’t his.

His head tilted at Dean, curious, and as if realizing his staring, he blinked.

“Um, hello, Agent Smith. Just peachy.” His eyes darted from Dean to Castiel, as though knitting them together with his gaze, trying to find something he couldn’t see quite clearly.

“You can call me Dean, Jack. It’s okay.” It was, if his tagging along their almost weekly ice cream engagements was any indication.

“I didn’t know you were coming over, Dean,” Castiel said, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he seemed to flit with new nervosity, his eyes flicking between Jack and him.

“Uh, yeah. Just came by to drop off your apples. You weren’t at your office, so I thought you’d be home.” He hooked the bag of apples with his finger, bringing it over to Castiel. The man took it graciously, but he nodded to the large, square cardboard in his arms.

“Thank you, Dean. We actually had dinner at Gabriel’s. Rowena cooked.”

“Oh,” he intoned, suddenly feeling really, really stupid. “I didn’t know you had plans.” Dean gestured sheepishly to the box. “Well, um, good night, then. I got this large pizza to demolish.”

Dean was already mentally cursing at himself, not noticing the sidelong look Castiel gave Jack, speaking volumes for him.

“Nonsense, Dean. Are you trying to keep that pizza away from us so you can have it all for yourself? We talked about watching your cholesterol.”

The man looked up from where he was staring at the box, latching onto Castiel’s soft smile.

“Yeah, watching it go up,” he muttered, though fondly, as they made their way inside Castiel’s home.

The bungalow looked the same as when Dean first saw it—minimalist and clean. The vestibule led to a spacious living room, where an L-shaped sofa of considerable length was centered; an 88-inch TV mounted on the wall opposite it. The room ended with glass for a wall that usually gave a luscious, though currently dark, view of the greenery behind the house.

At the northern side of the room was Castiel’s grand piano nestled, black and sleek, as the radiance from the large overhead light bulbs that served as modern ceiling lamps glinted against its expanse. To the left, there was a doorway leading to the two bedrooms and one bathroom, and beside the doorway, an opening to the kitchen and dining area.

Dean set the pizza down on the coffee table between the enormous TV and equally enormous sofa, plopping down on it like he’s used to, perhaps too comfortable for measure. After all, it wasn’t his first nor third time in Castiel’s house.

“Jack, do you want to watch a film with us?”

The young man pondered at Castiel’s suggestion, caught between wanting to see more interaction between Castiel and Dean, maybe become a witness to their budding romance, if his Uncle Gabe was right.

Dean was already perusing through the DVD rack beside the monitor, a large case filled to the margin with motley genres. When he triumphantly pulled a copy of The Untouchables, grinning at Castiel like an excitable child, with Castiel fighting off the smile before it overcame him, he decisively made up his mind.

“I’m actually kind of tired, Cas. But you guys enjoy that pizza.”

So Dean and Castiel ended up on the long, white couch together, a tad too close yet a little too apart (as outside observers would assert). It was funny, actually. The more the movie progressed, the less the space between them had become, and Dean found himself exactly where he wanted to be tonight.

It was fine, even though Castiel kept moving his hand away unknowingly whenever Dean tried to place his beside him, and so timely leaned forward to the screen in rapture when Dean tried to drape his arm behind him—especially when Dean slowly but surely let his head fall to Castiel’s shoulder, instead ending up nose-diving into the foam when the man unwittingly stood up, claiming thirst, Dean forbidding the pout to surface.

It was alright, though, when Dean knew Castiel was giving in to the void, because his body was wavering, sat up on the couch. It was okay because when Castiel let his eyelids droop shut even before Ness finally said, “I think I’ll have a drink,” he slipped onto Dean’s shoulder—well, forearm, really—and Dean didn’t hide the smile this time.

It was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys stick with me even though I suck, and am going to suck, at updating regularly.
> 
> While I was scrolling through Tumblr, I found [this auspicious picture](http://bit.ly/2UdX7gI), making me think that it was almost exactly how I pictured Cas' living room.
> 
> That little ending scene was also inspired by [this](https://tenor.com/ZFOV.gif).
> 
> Drop a comment and tell me your thoughts. A kudos doesn't sound bad, either. :>
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://missbeansprout.tumblr.com)!


	11. Chapter 10: Fourth of July, 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I just want to say a few things:  
> • This is unbeta'd.  
> • I will be updating more irregularly because a licensure exam of mine is coming up really soon.  
> • I will be changing my Tumblr and AO3 username to MissBeanSprout.  
> • The original 1/2 of this chapter was actually lost to me because it didn't save in my documents. I was so upset and frustrated that I actually sobbed. I tried rewriting it while it was still fresh from my mind (it was 2 a.m. when I finished). Unfortunately, I feel that it isn't as good as the first time around. I tried my best though.  
> • Thank you for sticking with me, lovely people. Leave a kudos and follow me on [Tumblr](https://missbeansprout.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Miss_BeanSprout)!

“ _It was the heat of the moment, telling me what your heart meant. . ._ ”

Castiel’s phone blared noisily from where it was lying on his unkempt bed, Asia’s familiar tune priming him for what he knew was going to be his best friend’s inevitable teasing.

“ _Heat of the moment, shown in your eyes. . ._ ”

He moved away from the body-length mirror propped on the floor and leaning against his bedroom wall, nervously (and absurdly, at that) fumbling with the buttons of his polo, unsure if he could deal with Gabriel’s incessant and rather lewd remarks at the moment.

“ _I_ _t was the heat of the moment. . . Heat of the moment. . ._ ”

Taking the phone in his hand and automatically snorting at Gabriel’s candid contact photo, he contemplated if he should just let it direct to voicemail.

“ _Heat of the moment. . ._ ”

But he knew the man. Gabriel wouldn’t give up that easily, so begrudgingly, he pressed the green button and put the call on speaker.

“Please tell me how to change your personalized ringtone.”

The phone dropped back on the mattress as Castiel went back to self-consciously observing his outfit on the mirror.

“And I ask dad on a regular basis to give me 6-month vacations twice a year, but we can’t always get what we want.”

Castiel let his eyes roll to the ceiling.

“What do you want.”

“That’s not very nice, Cassie. I find that bedside manners are a must on first dates.”

“I have told you a million times, Gabriel,” he gritted out, though a faint pink hue had colored his cheeks. “It’s not a date.”

“Mm-hmm. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Castiel could hear the sarcasm drip through the call. “If it’s not a date, then why are you fussing over your clothes?”

The man’s gaze swept sharply up to his whole reflection from where he was fidgeting with the lowest button of his shirt.

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Sixth sense.”

“Did you have a camera installed in my room?”

“Don’t need to. I just know you too well.”

Castiel grimaced at his own image grimacing back at him, the dark blue shirt peppered with small white polka dots he had donned fitting him quite nicely, but he couldn’t tell for sure. He never really had much of a style worth a penny, what with his tan trench coat usually sufficing.

_You know, uh, perfect bod. Great sense of fashion._

He shook himself out of the words, easily denying where he had heard it before and its relevance to his current predicament.

Which wasn’t really a predicament, he convinced himself.

“Cassie? You still there? Having your first-first date jitters?”

Letting a small sigh escape through his nostrils, he smoothed out the fabric, down to his khaki shorts that mostly covered his knees. Shorts are picnic-friendly, right?

“Cassie, talk to me. You still alive?”

He grabbed his phone from the sheets, turning off the speaker and placing it by his ear just as he plopped on the edge of his bed. “Maybe it is a date, Gabe. A friendly one.”

“Friendly, my ass,” he snickered. “No two people spend that much time together for friendly endeavors.”

“Gabe, drop it. Ask Dean. We’re just friends.”

“Oh, I’ll ask him. I’ll definitely ask him when’s the wedding.”

“Alright,” snapped Castiel. “You’ve reached your daily snark limit. Goodbye and have a terrific fourth of July.”

Castiel ended the call severely, groaning and letting his back fall to the mattress. He closed his eyes, ridding himself of unwanted questions.

It’s not a date. Just two ex-enemies hanging around, going for a picnic on Independence Day.

“Absolutely not a date,” he whispered to himself, eyes shut and a hand disheveling his hair in annoyance.

It didn’t even matter. His perception of Dean Winchester might have evolved through the weeks, and he might be harboring tenderhearted feelings for the man, but it just goes to show how their friendship had grown. It didn’t mean that it _mattered_ to him if this was a date or not.

It didn’t. Doesn’t.

He was just fond of Dean; not necessarily entailing that he liked- _liked_ him.

Castiel sighed. He could recall a time when trivial things such as not-dates didn’t bother him. What was it about Dean that got him going bonkers?

Before he could further persuade himself to believe that his feelings toward Dean were utterly platonic, his phone pinged on the hand not tangled in his hair.

 **From: Gabriel Shurley (5:26 PM)** **  
** row may have suggested that i went too far

 **From: Gabriel Shurley (5:26 PM)**  
i’m sorry, cassie

 **From: Gabriel Shurley (5:27 PM)** **  
** i get excitable, u know that. but enjoy ur not-date with deano i luv u

Castiel shook his head, but it was tinged with soft resignation. He was forming a reply in his head when the familiar honk of a particular ‘67 Chevy sounded from the driveway, jolting him upright, effectively forgetting the text altogether.

Before he knew it, his feet had carried him out the door of his bedroom, but not without stealing a last glance at his reflection.

On his way out, he grabbed the standard red-and-white checkered picnic blanket waiting on the top of his couch, which Dean had told him to procure after Castiel asked him what he could contribute to their affair.

_“Affair, Cas? Seriously? You make it sound so diplomatic.”_

He smiled at the echo.

When Castiel emerged from his home, Dean, clammy hands on the wheel of his Impala and eyes trained on the front door of Castiel’s house, couldn’t smother the gasp that escaped him.

Holy mother of pie.

Castiel looked like a fucking supermodel.

The royal blue shirt punctuated his insanely blue eyes, his khakis showing off his runner’s legs—which Dean definitely did not rake his eyes upon—and a pair of shades hung casually on the pocket of his shorts like he didn’t even try.

Oh, and the sex hair. Mussed up like Castiel had persistently run his hands over it.

When the man strode to the passenger door of the car, Dean willed himself to swallow. Crouching down to the height of the car window, Castiel tapped on it with his index finger before waving uncertainly at Dean, his smile unsure.

Dean waved back, feeling his face heat up when he realized that Castiel was pointing to the fastened lock of the door before scrambling to release the lock quite pathetically.

Castiel slid inside, reaching to the backseat to place the blanket on top of the large woven basket sitting idly.

When he settled, he gave Dean a sideways smile. “Where did you get the basket?”

“Oh, um,” Dean said, glancing to the back. “There’s a store where you can rent these kinds a' things. All sorts of stuff.”

Hiding the fact that his heart warmed at Dean going out of his way for their not-date, Castiel nodded in acknowledgment.

“So, all set? Let’s get to the park.”

It was only a 10-minute drive to Deerfield Park, a comfortable silence pervading the atmosphere, as it usually did since they became true friends.

Dean could remember a time when he only held friendly feelings toward the man, but more than that, he could remember the moment they timorously stepped across a threshold they didn’t know existed.

• • •

_“You think of philosophy as compartmentalized. As though metaphysics and ontology exist discretely. They do not. Every single concept or perspective are overlapping and interdependent. A single course with sophomores can incorporate 75% of all philosophical principles—with the right educator."_

_Dean remained dubious._

_“What about death? You still discuss death even though everyone knows you’re immortal? That’s ballsy talk.”_

_Castiel lowered his eyes._

_“I may be immortal, Dean, but I. . . do not believe that I am going to live forever. I know that I will die. Be it from a car accident, an incurable infirmity, or maybe even from slipping in the bathroom. One day, I will die, and that would be the end of it. My students know as much.”_

_Dean’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t stand the thought of death. He’d lived this long enough to evade nothingness and here was Castiel telling him that even as an immortal, death was inevitable._

_“How can you believe that?” he choked. “How can you accept death so fucking easily?”_

_Castiel returned his gaze to the horizon. “It wasn’t easy. I used to think that my life would be eternal. But I found the flaw in that plan of mine. . . I have been the department head of the Philosophy Department for almost three decades, Dean. I’ve worked there twice that amount of time. More than that, actually. Do you know how many people passed through the school, how many lifetimes commensurate my single stay? I had to bury friends. Good friends.” Castiel looked at his hands as though they were the object of his grievance. “It’s easier to keep a very low number of people in your social circle. Gabriel and Balthazar. . . I don’t know what I’d do when that day comes. There are times that I wish I would go before they do because I am still afraid that I’m going to live on forever.”_

_Castiel breathed deeply, strengthening his resolve and looking to Dean with knowing empathy. “For me to die naturally, I’d have to Soulshift, and that—well, that can’t be helped. As I’ve said before and continue to do so, you cannot have one thing over another. We need parity. When there is life, there is also death. Just as day is to night. All the world asks for is balance.”_

_Dean growled. He shot out of his seat and threw Castiel a scowl. “Screw that, Cas! Screw balance! I—even you—we ain’t dying anytime soon and no amount of philosophy is going to change that.”_

_Castiel sat, collected, all the while Dean stomped aggressively against the grass, muttering about how unfair everything is._

_“You don’t know that, Dean. You never know when death awaits. But I understand your anger. It’s much easier to deny than to accept; to put it all in a little box and stash it somewhere where it wouldn’t bother you anymore rather than face it head on. Easier not to feel anything at all, then you wouldn’t have to feel like this.”_

_Dean snarled at Castiel’s words and spat, “Can you stop acting like my therapist! I don’t need your pity or your–your philosophical intervention!”_

_But Castiel was still calm and it infuriated Dean._

_“Okay.”_

_Dean was scratching his head in pique when Castiel spoke. “What?”_

_Castiel only nodded. “Okay. You say you don’t need intervention; I will no longer intervene.”_

_“The hell you talking about?” Dean drew his eyebrows together, perplexed._

_Castiel didn’t reply. He patted the seat beside him where Dean once sat, and it took a while before Dean steadied his breathing and perched beside Castiel._

_They remained there, just sitting, for several minutes. When Castiel could no longer hear Dean’s heavy breaths, he spoke, “I love sunsets. We’re witnessing a particularly aesthetic one right now.”_

_Dean turned to Castiel like he grew another head._

_“Don’t you?” asked Castiel, and Dean suspiciously replied, “This isn’t another one of your lessons, is it?”_

_Castiel quietly huffed a laugh. “All I’m saying is that I enjoy watching nightfall.”_

_Dean faced forward and saw what Castiel meant. The sky was streaked with aureate orange, rosy, and lavender hues that blended with the darkening horizon. It instilled an odd sort of calm in Dean, and the breath he drew taking in the sight was like his first breath in a millennium—the sign of sun after an endless night, or maybe the start of night after a sweltering day. Either way, Dean liked it._

_So he and Castiel stayed there on the wooden bench that’s become some sort of a trademark for them. They stayed there for an hour with Castiel bringing up his penchant for bees and burgers, and Dean sharing his love for solving the unsolvable. They stayed for another hour, and then another, and they didn’t even notice._

• • •

Dean wanted to ask himself when a tentative friendship evolved into a gut-wrenching sensation whenever he saw Castiel, but he knew he didn’t have the answer to it. All he knew was that with every passing moment, learning who Castiel was inside and out felt like tumbling into an abyss which had no end—and he’d gladly fall forever.

But like all things, their drive came to a stop when they reached the small, open parking of Deerfield. Exiting the Impala, they made traversed the concrete walkway, but Castiel made a pitstop when they passed the flower bed that he had grown to love over the past month.

When they had first seen it, the plants were sullen and slouching, but now they were upright and vivid. Dean couldn’t help but wonder if Castiel was a nature whispered, because quite literally, when Castiel crouched down to the brick edging, he began whispering encouraging words like “you look exceptionally beatific today” and “the bees must be enjoying watching you prosper” and “stay happy, little ones.”

Dean also wondered how deeply Castiel could make him feel, watching him share his compassion with anyone and anything. But when Castiel rose to his feet, instead of saying something regarding his wretched _feelings_ , he remarked, “You’re such a sap, Cas.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel continued their trek, Dean following, to the grassland of the park, farther away from where they’d made their signature place at the wooden bench at the outskirts of Deerfield.

It wasn’t much of a busy park, so Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he and Castiel were the only ones left by sundown. But for now, it was still occupied with a few people savoring the late afternoon, mostly by the playground with kids and their guardians, some taking their dogs for a walk, and some taking a jog. 

Dean didn’t miss the way Castiel smiled softly when a young boy around age 5 Naruto-ran to the grassland, his mother chasing him with a giggle.

When they reached the approximate center of the area, it was almost 6 p.m. They covered the ground with the blanket, and Dean placed the wicker basket in the middle. After they sat down on crossed legs, he opened the flap of it and brought out the Roadhouse sandwiches, the beers along with the plates and utensils, leaving the still-warm apple pie for later. Nothing says Independence Day like apple pie.

It suddenly dawned to Castiel the effort Dean exerted for this picnic—the sandwiches varied from salami, to pulled pork, to grilled cheese. And then Dean also had potato salad. It was nothing fancy, but it didn’t make it less special.

Castiel pondered if they had the stomach to finish all of it. But he lost track of his thoughts, choking, when Dean extracted a stout candle in a glass jar.

“You know, for the mosquitoes.”

It was absolutely not for the mosquitoes.

Castiel felt as though their surroundings darkened, almost imperceptibly when Dean lit the candle with a gaslight, squirming to avoid the man’s stare.

And seeing all of the food spread out on the blanket, Castiel’s head quirked. “Dean, as much as I love the Roadhouse’s sandwiches, I told you we needed to eat a little healthier. A few greens wouldn’t harm our—”

He was interrupted when Dean fished out an opaque container from the basket, unmistakably filled with greens and reds.

“I listen.” He smiled proudly. “I got Ellen to whip something up.”

Heart thrumming against his chest, Castiel smiled gratefully at him.

With everything settled, Dean popped the beers open with his ring (mostly to impress Castiel), and handed him one which he took appreciatively. Dean held his bottle towards Castiel, and his friend reciprocated the gesture.

“To freedom?” suggested Dean, an amused smile playing on his lips.

“To existential, as well as essential freedom.” Castiel winked, plonking his bottle against Dean’s with a playful flick of his wrist, and Dean erupted into fits of laughter at the adorable motion. And he also got the reference due to being around the professor for days on end, so there was that.

He calmed immediately, though he was still smiling as they brought their respective beers to their lips and took a swig.

They started devouring the food, shifting from one conversation to another, and they were heedless to the egression of people, the painting of ethereal pink on the sky, and soon, the setting of the sun.

And set the sun did.

“You know, Cas, I’m gonna run out of bars to hustle pool from,” Dean said after their switch of subject from subject.

Castiel’s head tilted contemplatively, a calculating look on his face.

“What is it?” Dean’s hand flitted to his jaw. “Is there something on my face?”

“Move in with me.”

He flinched at his own crassness, and Dean’s brows flew to his hairline.

“Let me better phrase that. . . How about you stay in my guest room? We can split for the weekly groceries. The rent’s not a problem because the house is mine, and the bills, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I think it’s practical, Dean, since we spend so much time together for the case. And you have spent the night on my sofa more than once or twice.”

Dean was at a loss for words, and his mouth hung slightly open.

“You. . . You would—Seriously?”

Nodding his head, his voice sounded much firmer.

“Yes, Dean.”

“Wow,” he breathed. “I mean, I’m just. . . You trust me enough for that?”

“If you think I don’t trust you by now, Dean, then I must be doing something wrong with this friendship thing.” He chuckled.

“I don’t know what to say, Cas.” His eyes were set on Castiel’s, conveying his surprise, but the man only smiled.

“Say yes?”

Dean laughed—strangled and disbelieving.

“Oh–Okay. Yeah, Cas. I–I appreciate that. The offer. . . and your friendship.”

They exchanged small smiles, but Dean couldn’t stop his heart from twinging at the word _friendship_.

By the time they’d taken notice to the dimness, they had finished the food, stuffed and sated. Castiel had pushed some of the leafy greens to Dean’s plate, and this time, he had accepted it without protest.

Dean got up from his seat, telling Castiel that he needed to get something from the Impala. When he returned five minutes later, a sizeable lamp was lit, hanging from one of his hands, the amber illumination swathing their space.

Castiel couldn’t help it; he guffawed, loud and unrestrained as Dean’s cheeks flared in the dark.

“What? The lampposts aren’t gonna cut it, Cas.”

“You’ve prepared every contingency plan, haven’t you?”

He rolled his eyes at that, setting the lamp on the center of the cloth as he plopped back down again. The light gave a soft glow of content, and Dean placed his weight on the palms of his hands by his back, catching his friend’s placid gaze across the blanket.

“Thank you for tonight, Dean. I enjoyed it immeasurably.”

Dean let his head loll to his shoulder, grinning at Castiel from ear-to-ear before sighing and turning nostalgic.

“I used to bring Sam out at Fourth of July’s,” he began, eyes drooping shut. “When I was 14, our parents were trying to rip each other to shreds that July 4th, and I just couldn’t take it—I had to get out, so I brought Sammy to a park like this just to get away. To breathe. It was the fourth of July but we didn’t feel free; at least I didn’t.”

Castiel remained quiescent, waiting for the man to continue.

“Shit, I keep saying no chick flick moments, but I don’t know.” He snorted, self-deprecating. “I got us these big-ass sparklers, and he looked so damn happy. Then the fireworks went off and it felt. . . hopeful. And even for just a couple of hours, I forgot about home, school, people, problems—everything. Even if it was temporary. It’s one of my favorite memories.”

Looking on in understanding, Castiel gave him an off-kilter smile.

“You miss him.”

He shrugged.

“Yeah. Damn, I miss that bitch.”

 _Jerk,_ he could hear his brother’s voice ring in his ears.

And like clockwork, a high-pitched crack resounded from afar, a whooshing noise following immediately, and then the darkness was bathed in dazzling and brilliant electric lights.

Dean heard Castiel’s gasp in-between two consecutive firecrackers, and he smirked at his watch—exactly 8:30 p.m. Burcham Park was thoroughly punctual.

The park filled with the sounds of fireworks going off as Dean rose to his knees and opened the flap of the picnic basket once again, withdrawing two modest sparklers.

Before Castiel knew what was going on, he was pulled to his feet by Dean who grabbed his wrist. Dean hoped the blood rushing to his face wasn’t noticeable, because he was holding Castiel’s hand as he gave him a sparkler.

“Why do the clouds get to have all the fun?” shouted Dean over the din of the fireworks, and Castiel shook his head fondly at him. Dean lit the Castiel’s sparkler with a gaslight, then his, and it quickly blazed with gleaming scintillas.

They had the sparklers a reasonable distance away from their faces, gazes locked on the resplendent view of colors splitting the sky open, the multitude of luster and crackle after crackle overwhelming their senses. Still, Dean could hear his pulse in his ears.

It was this feeling again. . . The flare of hope stirring within Dean, the coruscation almost too much to bear. This time, though, someone felt it with him.

And he whirled his gaze onto Castiel, who was experiencing the moment with childlike wonder. And for a moment, Dean thought maybe if he were brave enough, he could find the right words to say.

But in that bubble, no words were needed. He watched Castiel in rapture as the shades of incandescence danced on his features, a rosy hue overlayed maybe because of the alcohol. The man was taking in the sight with awe and fascination, as though it’s the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He peered closer at Castiel as if in a trance, unable to break the spell. Dean saw his blue eyes reflecting the intoxicating luminescence, asking himself if they were really reflections or merely Castiel’s eyes glinting on their own. He then espied how the radiance bounced off of the man, how they were oceans mirroring a galaxy of infinite suns.

Dean could hear his heart, loud and clear.

Then Castiel turned his head, the blue meeting the green like an oasis trysting with desiccation, and with feet on the ground, he and Dean felt that second what it was to soar.

• • •

_“Can I ask you something?” asked Castiel, holding Dean’s intense stare._

_“Anything.”_

_They’d let the hours stretch on with them on the wooden bench that had come to know their secrets._

_Castiel smiled softly before turning solemn. “If you’re afraid of dying, did you not fear that you’ll Soulshift with any of your past lovers?”_

_Dean was surprised at the undaunted question, but nevertheless replied._

_“Well, I guess I thought about it for a while. I’ve given my soul to many people, you know, but in the back of my mind. . . I guess I always knew they wouldn’t be the one.”_

_“The one?”_

_“Yeah, the one. Peanut butter to my jelly, apple to my pie, corny shit like that.”_

_Castiel shook his head, laughing. “I know what it pertains to, Dean.” His face slowly slipped, becoming more apprehensive._

_“You still believe that?”_

_Dean shifted to look more closely at his friend._

_“I’ll know if they’re ever out there, Cas.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me share one of my favorite poems, Soulmate:
> 
> “I don’t know how you are so familiar to me—or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before—in another time, a different place—some other existence.” –Lang Leav
> 
> "Easier not to feel anything at all, then you wouldn't have to feel like this." I got this quote from [Warm Bodies](https://data.whicdn.com/images/77279907/large.jpg).


	12. Chapter 11: Douglas County Fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Unadulterated carnival fluff.
> 
> Also, unbeta'd.

The sun was shining quite literally on Castiel when he sauntered into wakefulness in an unparticular Wednesday morning. Rays of light bled through the Venetians of the window perpendicular to his bed, and he thought dazedly that it wasn’t as vexing as usual.

Though, objectively, he wasn’t really finding anything that vexing lately.

As he stirred in his sea of blankets, stretching slowly and sinuously, he gave a pronounced grunt.

Staring at the ceiling through a half-lidded gaze, he deliberated today’s agenda, and found himself smiling. His address was practically finished except for a few tweaks here and there, so maybe he’ll do the laundry today with Dean before—

At the thought of Dean, Castiel caught a whiff of what smelled like bacon wafting in the air, sniffing at it until he sat up on his bed. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and threw the comforter away to let his legs hang by the edge.

Now less groggy, he confirmed it _was_ bacon, and he could hear some music muffled by his door which seemed to emanate from the kitchen.

Dean had woken up first, then. Standing up, Castiel made his way to the bathroom for a quick brushing of teeth and washing of face. After which, he left his room and ambled to the hallway.

Oh, yeah. Music was definitely playing. But a voice that didn’t come from the speakers blended with it.

“. . . _no matter where you are, no matter how far, don’t worry, baby_. . .”

Sneaking across the dining room as clandestine as he could, Castiel peeped through the open doorway of the kitchen and saw Dean, back facing him as he worked with the pan in one hand and a spatula in the other.

Castiel couldn’t help but stare at his hips (read: ass), swaying side to side along the perky tune and sizzle of cooking bacon.

“. . . _valley low enough, ain’t no river wide enough, that’s keepin’ me from getting to you_ —Cas.”

The man smiled when he turned halfway to look at Castiel.

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

His eyes flicked up at him, neck heating up at the thought of being caught leering.

“Good morning, Dean.” He took his seat on one of the kitchen stools by the counter, and he missed Dean’s smug smile before he continued fixing up breakfast.

Dean kept humming to the song as Castiel let his temple rest against his forearm on the counter so that his view was the white-painted column of the kitchen doorway. “I didn’t get to jog today.”

“Ugh, jogging is the worst, Cas,” Dean groaned as he reached for the top cabinet to swipe a mug. “[I mean, I know it keeps you healthy, but God, at what cost?](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1c/e2/a8/1ce2a87fd92517dc0c7dd9aefa379490.png)”

If Castiel had his eyes open, he could have rolled them more properly.

And if they were mere mortals, he could have quipped _You’re not gonna be young forever, Dean_.

But such was the life of social deviants.

“At least _I_ try to maintain a healthy regimen, Dean. I pity your heart if its undoing is clogged arteries.”

Castiel heard a clunk of porcelain on marble by the top of his head. He opened his eyes and peered upward to see a steaming cup of coffee that immediately hit his nostrils, offered by a smirking Dean.

“You cut me real deep, Cas.”

The man straightened until he was only slightly slouched, and made for the coffee with both hands, briefly brushing skin with Dean. “I only state the truth.” Castiel took a sip, his gaze steady on Dean above the rim of the mug.

Dean returned his stare with the same magnitude, as usually how the blue and green did, before the tip of his tongue darted out to lick his lips, then glanced downward and swiveled away to finish cooking.

Neither of them knew the exact second they had become so domestic. But when Dean had moved in immediately after their July 4th affair (Dean drove them to his motel to pack all his belongings because there was really no point in waiting, they’d rationalized), both still a little hazy and overexcited from seeing the glorious display of fireworks, Castiel recalled how his stomach ached pleasantly, and Dean how his heart seemed to beat a little faster than normal.

And when it was well past midnight, with Dean’s large duffle settled in the guest room, he and Cas stood awkwardly by the corridor, trying to temper their nervosity at such a swift and monumental shift in their relationship.

“I just wanna thank you again, Cas,” Dean had spoken, a hand on the nape of his neck as he tried to maintain eye contact with his friend under the dim hallway light. “Means a lot to me. More than you letting me stay in your home—it means a lot that you trust me.”

Castiel smiled at him, bumping his fist to the man’s shoulder in a such uncharacteristic way. “You are my first, new friend in a score of years, Dean.”

“Which should give you more room for doubt.”

“Dean, you need to stop—”

“Not to mention I’m an immortal.”

“You’re looking—”

“And the Vagabond.”

“Dean—”

“Maybe this is a bad idea.”

It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to stay with Castiel, but he knew himself. And though his heart had grown cold and detached for the last few decades, he would recognize this furtive chord anywhere; it bloomed in his chest whenever Castiel was within arm's reach, and whenever he wasn’t, Dean unconsciously searched for the familiar blue gaze and longed for the warm smile that he imagined was reserved for him; the lull, the placidity, like a flower blossoming in spring after several bouts of harsh winter. The sheer _normalcy_ of it, as if it’s what was meant to happen all along.

The only difference this time was that the feeling had intensified a thousandfold.

He wasn’t sure if he could resist, and it terrified him to death.

Dean didn’t know that he stood no chance from the outset.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m an immortal, too, Dean,” Castiel said with a bit of residual dryness, before hesitating. “Are you. . . having second thoughts?”

He shook his head in reply. “It’s not that, Cas. It’s—” Sighing, Dean rubbed his face with his hand, unable to continue.

“What is it?” prompted Castiel, taking a step forward.

The man knew instinctively that he should step back, step away, but his feet remained plastered on the floor, wide eyes focused on his friend who was now as close as he had been only a few hours ago.

“I’m just. It’s complicated. You’ll hate me, Cas.”

The admission slipped out in a hurry, and Castiel furrowed his eyebrows in a frown.

“I have hated you, Dean. Now I don’t. I think it’s safe to say that we’ve passed that milestone.”

He only shook his head again, groaning in frustration at himself.

“You don’t get it. Cas, I—”

“What, Dean?”

“I—I got issues, man. I mean. They ain’t pretty, and I’ll just burden you.”

“You’re not a burden, Dean.” Castiel smiled easily, as though he had all the answers in the world. “You’re my friend.”

And if Dean could see the sincerity in Castiel’s eyes, who was he to deny that?

He gave a shaky laugh, and then closed his eyes in surrender.

When the next morning came, Castiel woke first, trying— _trying_ —to prepare breakfast for both of them, but give him a break. The last time he attempted breakfast was in the last millennium. Fortunately, Dean had woken up from the clang of the frying pan when Castiel had dropped it, and he saved him from further humiliation.

From then on, Dean had taken up the mantle of designated cook, learning his way through the house and falling into step with Castiel unknowingly. It was now a few weeks since Dean moved in, but it seemed to be forever that he would wordlessly offer Castiel his caffeine on grumpy days, or he and Castiel would automatically curl up on the couch on lazy days for a movie marathon. Or maybe they would clean the house after Dean’s constant nagging on “when was the last time [Castiel] picked up a broom.”

It was utterly domestic, and Castiel might just vomit. You know, in a good way.

Cutting Castiel out of his musings just when the speakers sang _But ev'ry time I see your face, I get all choked up inside,_ Dean slid a plate in front of him filled with pancakes, eggs and bacon, and would you look at that: hash browns.

“This is exactly why I need to jog. This is a heart attack on a plate, Dean.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like my cooking, Cas.” Dean chortled, grabbing a stool from across the counter and seating himself in front of Castiel.

“I never said I disliked your cooking. I merely implied that you should cook something healthier.” Nevertheless, he swiped a piece of hash brown and took a bite.

Dean got up for the refrigerator and brought back a bottle which he flippantly offered Castiel. “Here. Ketchup’s a vegetable.”

Rolling his eyes, he took the ketchup bottle and squeezed some onto his plate. “Ketchup is most definitely not a vegetable.”

They ate their meals, all the while chattering comfortably.

“Hey, I haven’t heard much about Balthazar. How is he?” inquired Dean through a mouthful of pancakes, and Castiel made a face at him. He sheepishly swallowed his food.

Satisfied, Castiel replied, “He’s doing much better now. The medication helps temper the sleeping problems, but I think the therapy is what’s really getting to him. The last he told me was that the experience helps with his self-awareness.”

“Good, then,” Dean said, nodding. “Does that mean he’ll stop making sexual innuendos?”

“God, no. There’s no fixing _that_ part of him.”

When they’d finished and Castiel took it upon himself to wash the dishes, Dean asked, “Laundry today?”

“Yes. After this?”

“I’ll put ‘em in the laundry room.”

Castiel met him there after he finished with the dishes, catching Dean loading up Castiel’s dirty clothes first with his; it was almost strangely intimate.

He pulled a jar of pods from the overhead cabinet and got one out, giving it to Dean who threw the pod into the machine and began the cycle. Leaning against the wall of the small room, Castiel steeled himself, impatient. A song too muzzled to be identified was still floating from the kitchen.

“Dean?”

His friend looked at him questioningly, and he inhaled deeply.

“You told me you still haven’t seen your parents’ house.”

Something flashed in Dean’s eyes, but it was gone before Castiel could decipher it. “I told you that, yeah. Why?”

“It just seems to me,” he juggled the words in his head, “that maybe you still feel like you’re on foreign territory. And I want to help you rediscover Lawrence.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, but a smile played on the corner of his lips. “Help how?”

“Let’s just say I have something prepared for later today.”

The man didn’t hide the surprise in his inspirited eyes. “Yeah? You gonna top my July 4th affair, huh?”

Castiel chuckled. “I can only hope. But yes, and we’ll leave by 5. Is that good?”

“Sounds awesome, Cas.” He grinned. “But where are we going?”

The man winked, in the playful way only Dean could bring out in him. “You’ll see.”

• • •

The day was pretty much an excuse for sloth, just lounging around and picking a random film they could put on. Both of them had been entirely unproductive (Dean would beg to differ; apparently watching a movie is still _doing something_ ) with the exception of Castiel running a few excerpts of his address by Dean.

“So, thoughts?”

“It’s good. Really good. Could use a bit of flair or humor, though.”

Castiel snorted. “I’m not exactly known for my comedic aptitude.”

“Get out. Dry humor works.”

“I’ll think about it, Dean.”

Soon, five o’clock rolled around, and Castiel persuaded Dean to ride his Continental for the sake of the surprise.

Much to his astonishment, Dean agreed. Well, he was grouchy about it, mumbling about how he’d be cheating on his Baby, but he nonetheless gave the green light without a fight. Pleased, Castiel slid into the driver’s seat and Dean on shotgun, already foreseeing all of the places he wanted to take Dean to.

It was Castiel’s lead after all, and Dean would gladly let the events tonight unfold as they were. He found himself bending suspiciously easy to Castiel’s will since he moved in.

Guess he couldn’t really blame if people were starting to talk. Whenever he would visit KU, professors would look at him in perplexity as to why he was always with Castiel. _You met the guy two months ago and you’re already playing house? I’m impressed, Cassie,_ he recalled Gabriel’s words, shocked but supportive, and then turned insinuating, _You know, Dean-o,_ _everyone’s been thinking that you’re staying in Lawrence for an entirely different reason now._

He shivered, unable to even partially deny it. He loved living in Castiel’s home.

Dean probably discovered every nook and cranny of the house by now, so when his friend asked him not to let the house burn while he was away in Europe, Dean could only smirk.

“You know, I’m starting to think you offered your guest room to me so I can house-sit.”

Castiel gaped at Dean, taking what looked like umbrage in his remark.

“That is an incredibly hurtful thing to say to your friend, Dean. I didn’t know you thought so low of me, because it’s absolutely true. I only invited you to stay so someone can look after my home free of charge.”

There was a beat of silence at first as Castiel maneuvered the car to a right turn, before it snapped and Dean spluttered with laughter and Castiel cracked up along with him. It became uncontrollable, and Castiel willed himself to settle down from the simple hilarity.

The loud laughs dwindled into mollified sighs, grins still plastered on their lips.

“See, Cas. The sarcasm just comes naturally to you. You’re—it’s amazing.”

Castiel smiled bashfully.

A few minutes away from their destination, Dean finally spotted it; he could tell because they’d slowed down and _oh, God, please let this be it_. Second after second, he turned giddy and he was staring directly out the car window to gawk at the enormous open area that was dispersed with tents, rides, machines, kiosks, candies, games, you name it—

And holy crap, Castiel entered the parking lot.

Dean whipped his head to stare at his friend who parked the car in a free space.

“The fair?”

It wasn’t condescending; no disgust or contempt. On the contrary, his voice was filled with barely contained excitement.

Castiel turned off the engine, biting his cheek as he slipped a hand in his coat and pulled out the two admission tickets he procured two weeks ago. “Yes. The Douglas County Fair. It’s here for six days, and I picked the midweek because there are fewer people. To be honest, getting tickets was quite intimidating because I don’t really go to events like these, and it’s really embarrassing as a centennial but if I may say so myself, the difficulty was not unfounded—”

“Buddy, you’re rambling,” Dean interrupted softly, and Castiel flushed. “I—”

“This is genius, Cas.” With his grin, Castiel’s anxiety eased. They went to the entrance, giving their stubs, and it was uphill from there.

 _Holy shit, holy shit,_ Dean thought. “Cas! C’mere!”

They reached the line of carnival games, and Dean was filled with elated energy, wanting to try every single one.

Darts were the first. Dean overtook Cas in skill and quashed him like a sucker, no doubt about it. He popped a balloon with every throw and even earned a few claps from the passers-by when the operator announced his win. Castiel was the loudest clapper of all, taking his defeat with grace, and when the man handed Dean a large squirrel plush, Castiel almost fell over laughing and Dean asked himself if he had missed something. Shrugging, he extended the stuffed animal to Castiel, and he sobered immediately.

“You won it, Dean. It’s yours.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna win every single game in this joint and I need someone to share the prizes with.”

When Castiel took the outstretched squirrel, they were on their way to the next one: the classic water gun game. Castiel stood a chance against Dean this time, but with the plush squashed in his armpit because there was no place to put it down, control was difficult. So Dean won again, this time bagging a stuffed penguin. In his peripheral view, he saw a small boy who couldn’t be older than 6 years old, eyes following the plush. Without further second-thought, he offered the penguin to the kid, who stared at the toy and then at Dean with hazel doe eyes. Dean gave him an encouraging smile, and the child took it with a toothy grin.

“Thank you, mister,” he piped, the adorable little thing, engulfing the penguin in a hug. “You’re welcome, kid.” The boy ran off to a man, showing him the plush frivolously.

“That was kind of you, Dean,” he heard a voice rasp into his ear, and he shifted to the side to look at his friend. Castiel was wide-eyed in reverence. “The boy looked happy.”

Dean didn’t reply, only nudged him to the next stall.

Oh, this one— _this one,_ definitely this one.

“You think you can win it, Dean?” Castiel was smirking at him.

“Step right up! Play the High Striker! You get three strikes, and if you ring the bell like a man, you get the jackpot prize! The strikes, ring the bell and you get a prize!”

Dean sniggered. “I got this.”

He paid for a round, taking the lengthy mallet into his hand and stretching his fingers around it purposefully. Positioning himself a good distance from the pad, he wiggled his hips a bit, giving Castiel a nice view of his ass.

Castiel returned his gaze to the game. He cleared his throat first, then said, “You can do this, Dean.”

Eye on the prize, Dean struck it hard and audacious. A red light traveled fast up the shaft of the machine, but it missed the mark by barely two notches.

“First strike! Ring the bell and you get a prize.”

“Harder, Dean!” Castiel enthused, wearing a hyped grin as he moved to the side to give Dean more leeway, who was, by the way, red-faced at his friend’s words. He strengthened his resolve when he could sense that some people had stopped to watch, and he cracked his neck, then struck.

Three notches.

“Last strike! Ring the bell and you get a prize!”

A few 'oof’s' and 'that was close' resounded nearby, and Dean breathed through his mouth, calculating.

“Hey, you got this, Dean.” Castiel thumped him on the back, and Dean stole a glance and saw his friend giving him two zealous thumbs-up. His lips quirked at the corner, and he positioned himself once again.

“Last strike!”

He held the hammer over his shoulder, widening his stance and tightening his grip on the handle.

“Ring the bell!”

Dean exhaled slowly.

“Get a prize!”

_You did it, Dee!_

He let go, and the machine blared with high-pitched peals, signaling his victory.

“Dean! You did it!” Castiel laughed wildly, grabbing Dean by the arm but stopped himself before all-out hugging him. Instead, he gave him an ear-to-ear grin. “That was incredible.”

“Phew!” exclaimed Dean, self-satisfied, only now hearing the small crowd’s broken applause over the din of chatter and continuous ringing.

“Your prize. Congratulations.” The operator handed Dean a small envelope, though he didn’t look too pleased. He accepted it, then gave him a two-finger salute and skittishly pulled Castiel away from the High Striker.

When they reached the middle of the fair where mostly the food stalls were situated, Dean halted, blood still pumping. “Dang, I thought for a second there I was gonna lose.”

“I never doubted you for a second, Dean.”

Dean licked his lips, the adrenaline giving him the courage to blatantly leer at Castiel’s mouth. _I wanna taste that,_ he thought, but he tempered the rush, meeting Castiel’s eyes and almost missing the way they flicked up from where Castiel was also staring at his lips.

Snapping himself out of it, he proffered the envelope to Castiel. “You open it.”

Castiel took it distractedly, unfolding the flap with the hand not holding the squirrel plush, and took a peep after forcing himself away from Dean’s inviting moss eyes.

“Oh, wow,” he breathed, eyebrows lifted. “What is it?” prodded Dean, suddenly curious.

“It’s Hamilton.”

Dean’s jaw dropped, peering further.

“We won tickets to Hamilton?!” He was swept with incredulity, and then anticipation at the thought of seeing the musical again.

His friend remained restrained. “Yes, Dean. You won a ticket to Hamilton.”

At that, Dean’s face fell. “Just one? Are you su—”

Castiel suddenly pulled a rectangular paper from the envelope, showing Dean, well. . . Hamilton.

In a ten-dollar bill.

It was a ten-dollar bill.

He won a ten-dollar bill for a ten-dollar game.

He opened his mouth to say something, but what erupted was a noise of laughter that both he and Castiel were clutching at each other trying not to double over, the squirrel almost getting dropped.

“I won back my playing fee,” Dean snorted, and they broke into fits again, not quite believing it.

“Oh, my.” Castiel sucked in a breath, trying to moderate his titters. “I guess you were— _played_ —for a sucker.”

He rolled his eyes at him, their laughter slowly dying but still unable to fight off the smiles. “Eugh. What a rip-off.”

“Essentially, what you won was a free game.”

“That makes me feel better.”

“That’s odd. I was trying to make you feel worse.”

Dean grinned goofily at him. “I’d be lost without you, Cas.”

 _And I’m found with you, Dean,_ thought Castiel dazedly.

“Hey, I need to go to the little girls’ room. Why don’t you use that to buy us some cotton candy, huh? I’d love some cotton candy.”

Castiel watched him jog away, thinking how easy it was to bring out Dean’s inner child. Dean kept baring his soul to Castiel, over and over that he thought maybe he knew who Dean really was by now. It was a bit scary, the depth of Dean, but also thrilling, knowing he’d learned something new about him every day.

Remembering to buy cotton candy, he surreptitiously skipped his way to the candy stall, holding a squirrel in his arms.

• • •

Dean emerged from the men’s room still excitable and ready to conquer the second hour of their date.

Shit. Date? Not a date. Definitely not a date. Right? Could somebody please tell him that they’re not on a date? Or maybe tell him that they _are_?

Shit, shit, shit. This was bad. Because Dean wanted it to be a date, and if this wasn’t. . . well, fuck.

Shaking his head and trying to let go of those thoughts for now, he went to look for the cotton candy stall. When he spotted it near the bumper car arena ( _oh, yeah, for sure_ ), he came up to the front but Castiel was nowhere near.

“Uh, excuse me,” he said to the bearded man wearing a dad hat that looked uncannily familiar. “Did you see a guy pass by here, about yea tall? Dark hair, blue eyes, sex voice that sounds like he smokes ten packs a day. . . Not that I ever heard it—in the context of sex—I mean. I never. . .” He laughed nervously, scratching his neck at his grating awkwardness.

“Well, it kinda sounds like you want to, boy,” the man replied gruffly, swirling a new batch of cotton candy from the machine. “Hear it in the context of sex.”

His eyes grew comically.

“Sorry?” he choked out.

“You better catch up and tie him down if you don’t wanna let him slip through your fingers.”

Dean was confused from hell to back. He couldn’t find the words to reply, his mouth working, but the older man rolled his eyes as though Dean was the most idiotic person he’d ever met.

“Some guy yanked him to that booth over there. Didn’t seem like he wanted to go.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he just speechlessly nodded and ambled to the booth the man pointed to.

What the odd man failed to supply was that the booth was a friggening kissing booth.

There was Castiel at the front, looking like a lost puppy in a trench coat, as a redhead flirted up at him.

And Dean’s heart plummeted to the ground.

He clenched his fists at his sides willfully, and stormed to them. When he reached the booth, he took Castiel’s elbow where the squirrel was nestled. “Cas,” he said, clipped, though the hostility was directed at the ginger.

“Dean.” Castiel sounded gleeful as he showed Dean a large bag of colorful cotton candy that was snug in his other arm.

He forced a smile. “What’cha doin’ here, Cas?”

“Oh, this is April.” He gestured to the fiery-haired woman with the simpering smile. “Her fundraiser partner, Inias, showed me to their booth. They’re raising money for the Amazon forest fires that happen to occur yearly. It’s a good cause, Dean.”

The sign that said _#SaveTheAmazon_ berated him from overhead.

“Ah. I see. That’s good.” It was good, but. . . did Castiel—?

Castiel leaned in to whisper. “The Amazon needs your help, Dean. You don’t have to kiss her if you don’t want to. I didn’t.”

 _Oh, thank God._ Dean expelled a sigh of relief at that, and Castiel looked at him with bemusement. He didn’t think Dean would pass up a chance to kiss a woman as easy on the eyes as April.

Dean tugged his wallet out of his pocket and handed April a generous sum, who accepted it with a harrumph, which pleased Castiel immensely. And then he hauled them both away from the booth faster than you could say _wildfire_.

“Are you okay, Dean?” Castiel asked in concern when Dean wouldn’t look at him as they navigated through the bustling fair.

He sighed. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just—nothing, it’s nothing.”

Unconvinced but not prodding any further, he gestured to his left with a smile. “It’s almost sunset, Dean. And I got us the best seats in the house.”

Before Dean could answer, Castiel had pried him to the Ferris wheel, and he was instantly on board.

They passed through the entrance with ease, and the guy manning it smiled knowingly at Castiel as they hopped in a cart.

Settled with Castiel and Dean seated across each other, Dean’s mood had lifted by the time they began ascension. Castiel settled the plush beside him then ripped open the plastic bag.

Dean frowned. “You didn’t get me one?”

He looked at Dean, shy as he extended it to him. “I thought, since we’re cutting down on our sugar, maybe we could just share one. . ?”

Dean’s heart fluttered, seeing right through Castiel’s bull. He thrusted his hand in the bag and picked off a piece, tasting it with a grunt of approval. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Castiel offered the bag to the stuffed squirrel. “Want some, Acorn?”

“Acorn?” intoned Dean. “You named him Acorn?”

“I could always name him Dean.”

He squinted at Acorn. “Well, he does look like a Dean.”

When they were high up that they could see the expanse of the fair, Dean noticed that Castiel had a knuckle-white grip on his seat, though his visage was void of any trepidation.

“Cas?”

He faced him, taking another piece of candy just as Dean reach his hand to the bag, and they grazed hands, turning Castiel coy.

“Are you afraid of heights?”

Castiel froze. Then, licking the sweetness from his lips, he slumped.

“You know, I’m really not. It’s just that this is my first time on a Ferris wheel and I didn’t foresee that it would be this. . . wobbly.”

“This is your first time?”

Nodding in answer, Dean shot him that familiar guise, the reassuring smile.

_I got you._

“Don’t look down, alright? Just focus on the sunset. You’re okay, Cas.”

He nodded again, but this time he wore a precarious smirk. “What about you? Don’t you consider this a metal death trap, too?”

“This is closer to the ground than a plane. Stop judging me.”

Castiel chuckled at him, his clasp on the seat loosening as they neared the top.

The view was truly stunning. To Dean’s right, the sun was setting gracefully, surrounded by pastel swirls that were not unlike the almost-finished cotton candy. The Earth’s star was easier to look at now, half-gone, and battling between tangerine and gold. The hue was ubiquitous, so everything was in a shade of an imposing orange, and Dean knew if he looked at Castiel, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

He wouldn’t want to look at anything else.

To Castiel’s right, he could descry the entirety of the Douglas County Fairgrounds. The light was low on that side, and most of the stalls had their night-lights on. From above, it looked like an early Christmas. Different illuminations were spread across the grounds, and the noise was nothing more than faraway static.

Dean and he were completely alone.

They were also opposite in every way; across from each other, one looking to the right and the other to the left, one wearing a trench coat and the other a leather jacket, one couldn’t find love and the other loved one too many, one whose name everybody knew and the other whose name changed every other year, and one spent his entire life trying to discover its meaning and the other to outrun it.

But they were also alike. They were both immortals, both experienced tremendous loss, both had loathed each other, both now liked each other, _hell, they lived together,_ and both wanted to look the other way, but afraid of what would happen if they met each other in the middle.

Castiel turned midway, and so did Dean.

 _He’s beautiful,_ Castiel thought sullenly, as the fading light played on Dean’s features, highlighting his gorgeous freckles, and he wished he could run his hands over them and give each one a kiss.

 _He’s perfect,_ Dean thought in rapture, the piercing blue eyes gazing back at him, intense and mellow at the same time. And like always, he wanted to believe that every single tender look Castiel had was solely for him.

As the sun disappeared and promised to return in due time, they both wondered if they should break the stillness.

_Should I tell him—?_

_Is this a—?_

_Do you think there’s a chance—?_

_What if we—?_

_Maybe you could—?_

_Can I just—?_

_Would you let me—?_

But then the rocking of the booth halted with a start, and they were on solid ground again.

They didn’t talk about it, but there was a crackle of nervous energy between them, waiting, biding its time until either Dean or Castiel couldn’t cordon it off anymore. It could stand a delay; it had waited this long after all.

“C’mon, Cas. Let’s go get some hotdogs. I saw a cookie stand over by the water gun. Maybe a last game before we go? I’ma beat your ass in bumper cars.”

“You underestimate my driving skills, Dean. A lapse in judgment, really.”

• • •

“How does it feel to be a loser, Dean?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re never gonna let go of this, are you?”

Castiel grinned. “Never.”

They might have gotten a little competitive during a ring toss, and when they were neck and neck in getting 10 throws in, Dean leaned forward an inch too close and ended up falling over the stand and making a fool of himself in front of a minor audience.

More importantly, Castiel got the 10th ring in and won a plush cat, beige-colored with blue eyes (the operator might have been onto something). And Dean earned the title of _Loser_ for the rest of his life, apparently.

“You won one game, you know,” Dean grumbled. “I bagged the rest of ‘em.”

“Spoken like a true loser.”

“Shut up.” He yawned, absentmindedly brushing the fur of the stuffed cat, Tuna, beside him on shotgun.

Suddenly, he spotted the road they were on, one familiar but new all the same, and Dean recognized that they were not on their way back to Castiel’s house.

“Cas, what are you doing?” His voice held a tone of panic.

“Trust me.” Castiel kept himself leveled, but conveyed enough reassurance. Dean did trust Castiel, but he was wordless; he closed his eyes when his friend stopped and killed the engine.

“Dean. . . you can’t run forever.”

He gave a short self-deprecatory huff.

“I can try.”

“But that’s not what you want.”

Dean rubbed his face with his hand, shaking his head in denial of everything, and fortifying himself. Castiel also seemed to grow quieter, more sensitive.

 _I’m not ready,_ Dean wanted to argue, but Castiel would just see right through the lie.

“You know where we are, Dean. Don’t worry, I’m not going to force you to confront it; that’s your choice. All I intended was for you to see your parents’ home— _your_ home—”

“It wasn’t my home, Cas,” he rebuked. “It was a house.”

Castiel gave a patient nod. “All I ask is you look at the house, Dean. This is where you grew up. And though it’s filled with painful memories, it’s a part of who you are. Since you left in ‘39, you’ve been lost. I’m not judging you, nor am I forcing you to subject yourself to more hurt. I’m only saying. . . that you have nothing to be afraid of. If you decide you’re not ready, I will drive us home, and we’ll go back only when you say so.”

Dean was worrying his bottom lip, and Castiel continued.

“You’ll feel lighter if you let go of what’s holding you back. Whether you choose now or another time, I will be there, Dean. You’re not alone in this. I am by your side when you need me.”

His friend placed his palm on top of Dean’s hand that was wavering on his lap, and squeezed consolingly.

“I don’t know what to do, Cas,” he whispered, and Castiel exerted a comforting pressure again, grounding him.

“From what I see, you can tell me to drive. . . or you can tell me to get out of the car with you.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“ _It is,_ ” he emphasized, soft eyes on Dean. “It is, Dean. Stop trying to complicate it.”

Looking into Castiel’s well-intentioned eyes, Dean let himself feel secure. He felt safe and he didn’t even have to try, because it’s what Castiel naturally elicited in him. No matter what happened, his friend would catch him, so maybe he _could_ be strong enough to face his fears.

Not breaking eye contact, he reached his free hand inside his jacket pocket, taking the bundle of keys out and letting it dangle on his index finger.

It was not the key to his Impala. It was the key to the house his parents had bequeathed to him.

The house that no one had stepped foot in for the last 40 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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